I really want to tell my friends how I'm feeling,
but I have to take care of them first
I am the bee without a stinger

I have to listen to their worries and their sadness
and their stories,
but there's no floor
at the bottom of the pit,
just a dark, ghastly hole
full of limitless shi-

Why should I burden them
with more anyway?
How can I go last
when there is no end? 

I should go it alone
I should help them up the road, giving them my flame
to see the way

I am the wheel barrel,
dents and rust,
I don't mind

But,
I wish they'd ask me
why my smile
dropped into a frown,
how I'm dealing
with my limps and my scars,
why the dams in my eyes
are brimming with tears

I tell them I'm tired,
which is the truth,
but a lie
the epitome of understatements, I'm exhausted,
I can't deny

But,
I'm not their best friend
or their first "go-to"
It seems I'm a last resort
who can never say no
I wish they'd know
that it hurts a lot
that I feel left behind
that I'd rather
feel numb
if I can't have
what they won't give

Maybe that's why
I'm always there with a smile
and offer myself
as a rag for their snot
hoping they'd realize
that I care a lot
and a lot

I would like it to go away,
but I'm afraid
it'll hurt them more

Maybe they can
figure it out themselves
I even left them
crimson ribbons
but they only
see grey

I've been accused
of witch craft,
but I'd rather face the penalty than pass on
the plague

But,
it's ok

I'm a strong coward

I'm used to it.