Sand

I'd like to believe
In one thing that you say to me.
Would you like to leave?
When I try to talk at all,
it all just turns out to be.

Turn on the stove,
In the little tiny rooms that our friends call home.
My head fills with heat
From the knife in your hand to mine.

I'd like to understand
What you think about,
Why it seems so bad.
It's only escape,
From everything I know I'm weak,
I know that I'm sad.

Turn on the stove,
In the little tiny rooms that our friends call home.
My head fills with heat,
From the knife in your hand to my sand.