Shoot I was born with a gun in my mouth, With the barrel down my throat so that I couldn’t shout For help and for savior from parents and doctors That wants my safety but can’t see the danger. There’s a gun in my mouth, and I run my tongue along the edge Of the muzzle to feel the ridges I left On the metal from bite marks I gnawed with my teeth, As I waited for the bullets to make their release. The gun’s in my mouth, and the feel is familiar, The ache in my jaw and the sick, twisted thrill of Wanting the change, and wanting the bullet, And wanting the finger on the trigger to pull it. There’s a gun in my mouth, and I want it to hurt, and I want to it to sting and I want it to burn As the bullet rips my throat in a blazing blow, For at least it leaves a wound that I can show. There’s a gun in my mouth, but I’m holding the gun, And holding me down so that I can’t run. There’s a gun in my hand, and it’s pointing at me, As I wait for the shot that will mark me free. There’s a gun in my hand and I want to use it, On the cowardly girl and the mouths that abuse it, That hurt the gun by taking it as given, And holding the gun, yet waiting for forgiveness. There’s a gun in my mouth, and a gun in my hand, And they both want the freedom the bullet will grant. A shift in the hell of the stagnant waiting, An end to the rope that is already fraying. There’s a gun in my hand, and I want it to hurt, I want it to sting and I want it to burn, As I pull the trigger and feel as the metal, Rips through the chamber and finds my mouth to settle. There’s a gun in my heart, and a gun in my fate, There’s a bullet I will shoot when it’s already too late, There’s a hope in my heart for help and for savior, From parents and doctors that can’t see the danger.

Shoot I was born with a gun in my mouth, With the barrel down my throat so I couldn’t scream For help from parents and doctors Who want to keep me safe but don’t see the danger. There’s a gun in my mouth, and I run my tongue along the edge Of the muzzle to feel the ridges I left On the metal from bite marks I gnawed with my teeth, As I waited for the bullets to come out. The gun’s in my mouth, and it feels familiar, The pain in my jaw and the strange thrill of Wanting change, wanting the bullet, And wanting someone to pull the trigger. There’s a gun in my mouth, and I want it to hurt, sting, and burn As the bullet tears through my throat, At least it leaves a wound I can show. There’s a gun in my mouth, but I’m holding it, And keeping myself from running. There’s a gun in my hand, pointing at me, As I wait for the shot that will set me free. There’s a gun in my hand and I want to use it, On the cowardly girl and the mouths that abuse it, That hurt the gun by taking it for granted, And holding the gun, yet waiting for forgiveness. There’s a gun in my mouth, and a gun in my hand, And they both want the freedom the bullet will give. A change in the hell of waiting, An end to the rope that’s already breaking. There’s a gun in my hand, and I want it to hurt, I want it to sting and burn, As I pull the trigger and feel the metal, Tear through the chamber and settle in my mouth. There’s a gun in my heart, and a gun in my fate, There’s a bullet I’ll shoot when it’s too late, There’s hope in my heart for help and savior, From parents and doctors who can’t see the danger.