There’s no number six in my pocket, there was nothing but the feeling of dead cold steel, numbing my fingers, filling my veins with led and sorrow, hitting my arteries with a splash of other people’s blood.
There’s no number six in my pocket, there was nothing but the count of tears, mothers screaming ‘till I trip and fall in hell, counting the days I pass standing on the verge of my own sanatorium, hitting my knuckles on the wall, drenched in blood.
There’s no number six in my pocket, there’s the knife of a homeless person, there’s food that no one ate, there’s you and me, there’s sorrow and pity, there’s your ring, your last words.
And I’m there, staring at the wall, on my knees, holding my fists against the wall.
The snow was drenched in blood, my shirt was full with your blood and I couldn’t do a thing. I was breathing heavily, my asthma was all blown up, and there was nothing I could do.
There’s no number six in my pocket, there’s nothing there.
All six bullets were in you.
Couldn’t even bring up six reasons that I did it.
There’s no number six in my heart, there’s nothing there.