Don't trust my friends, I know them better.

They'll treat you like a Christmas sweater,

wear you once then throw you away.

Build up your trust like bricks made of clay

They treat you like you matter, when really you don't.

Saying that they'll care, when they really won't.

It'll be you, just you alone,

bowing towards that empty thrown.

Talking to air with hair growing white,

one day you'll realize with terrible fright.

They'd never care, they never will.

So you'll sit upon your windowsill.

That twelfth story window sitting oh-so-high,

They'll find you said your last goodbye.