Self-sabotage is his specialty, Talk to ghosts like a therapy. I’m the static in your sensory, Overload, meltdown, call it chemistry. Dom thoughts when you test my calm, Might just turn rage into psalms. ⸻ [Chorus] Wanting more, wanting more, overdose addict, Rotting core, rotting core, rotten fruit plastic. Starving for the hit, but the thrill don’t stick, What’s the point of love if it feels counterfeit? Fake taste — I spit that out, Wait for the real, no discount route. Swap that boy with a cold-blooded mood, I’m not impressed, not in the mood. Leave you—wanting more.
