Its a compulsion, really out of my hands.
To tell you all about you, making all the wrong plans.

But I grind my teeth, (grind my teeth)
And I'm picking this scar,
Anything to make it through,
A night at the bar.

Leave me with flat teeth, with fresh wounds,
Another nervous tick.
Please leave me on the kitchen floor, with my dignity,
While I get sick.

Clean me out like an open sore,
Say its me that makes you a whore.
Go ahead blame the moon and sun,
Then deny, because thats what makes this fun.

You're just a symptom,
you're just a symptom,
You're just...
You're just a symptom,
you're just a symptom,
You're just...

Just a symptom, just a symptom.

Clean me out like an open sore,
Say its me that makes you a whore.
Go ahead blame the moon and sun,
Then deny, because thats what makes this fun.