[Verse 1] Everything I touch seems to die. Not in flames, not in spectacle, just quietly like the slow suffocation of something that once had a chance. Love, friendships, family. They all wilt in my hands. I reach out to hold them, but somehow my grip becomes a funeral. They say rot starts from the roots, but I've been pruning myself for years, trying to stop the decay. It never works. Maybe some people were born to build, and others were made to watch things crumble. The house, the dreams, the heart-shaped tree. All of them came with promises I couldn't keep. Now I look at what's left. A pile of memories, a trail of ghosts. And I wonder, maybe I was the ghost all along.
