I don't want to be the filler if the void is solely yours,
I don't want to be your glass of single malt whiskey,
hidden in the bottom drawer.
I don't want to be a bandage if the wound is not mine,
lend me some fresh air.
I don't want to be adored for what I merely represent to you,
I don't want to be your baby sitter, you're a very big boy now.
I don't want to be your mother,
I didn't carry you in my womb for nine months,
show me the back door.
Visiting hours are nine to five and if I show up at 10 past 6, well I,
already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and, oh,
mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom,
you see, it's too much to ask for, and I am not the doctor.
I don't want to be the sweeper of the eggshells that you up walk upon,
I don't want to be your other half, I believe that one and one make two.
I don't want to be your food or the light from the fridge
on your face at midnight, hey, what are you hungry for.
I don't want to be the glue that holds your pieces together,
I don't want to be your idol, see this pedestal is high
and I'm afraid of heights.
I don't want to be lived through, a vicarious occasion,
please open the window!
I don't want to live on some day when my motto is last week, and I,
I don't want to be responsible for your fractured heart,
and its wounded beat.
I don't want to be a substitute for the smoke you've been inhaling.
What do you thank me? What do you thank me for?