You’ve got it put into writing

What to do with your body

You said it’s your last experiment

You’ll say that you want them back

All the days that you lived too fast

But they could never offer enough to buy you

The things that you were never willing to sell

Why does it feel like I’m dying?

Or enclosed in a room?

I try to think what could or couldn’t have been true —

You think you’re supernatural, and I might too

Yeah, I might too

I know I’m too late for your birthday

But I painted you a portrait of Frieda Kahlo

My apologies for fucking it up

You say all your plans are made, and you know everything you’re gonna do with all the things in your life that you are going through.

And all you’re thinkin’ is that you want it back.

(It’s) bizarre how we all think of life

And then mortality transpires through.

“Well am I dyin’ right now?”

“…cause we’re all going to.”

And all I hope is that,

I’m not just fuckin’ it up.

“Yeah…am I fuckin’ it up?”