Spent like coffee grounds, poured over and poured out Discarded feelings drip down drains all day Keeping a closed mouth feels better in some ways, but not always You knock in the morning from the wilderness daymares And I open the door, you say "Is there room in the inn here?" I want to say no, because I'm scared of what you'll let in but In my depression there are many rooms Each day the antagonist of whatever this is Sews another stitch into the sides of my mouth And one day it's going to be enough to keep the air out But for now Wrath like flowers, upon my brow