I lit a mch I couldn’t hold
Wched it burn down bridges cold
And never meant a goddamn line
I left love in motel sheets
Now I walk through empty bars
Looking for faces behind the scars
These ghosts, they know my title
They trace my skin with blame
Every “fuck you” I now dread
They haunt my nights and twist the frame
I thought I’d age out of the shame
that girl I broke with hands and pride
Still shows up when I close my eyes
The slammed doors, the bitter crowd
The friends I left, the things I stole
These ghosts, they know my title
Play back scenes I wish I’d kill
But they’re louder now when I stand still
But goddamn it… they know my title
Never crawled back into that town
But every silence that I keep
Now I smile like it don’t hurt
I laugh, I drink, I fuck, I run
But the damage talks when the night is done
These ghosts, they know my title
They don’t forgive, they just remain
And sing the songs I can’t turn down
You can move on, but not from shame—
Some sins don’t scream
36 songs deep. And this one walks beside you long after the final chord fades.
Song #37 is next—and that means sleaze is back on the table. Loud, rude, leher-clad,
and soaked in sin. Want it funny, filthy, cruel,
or all three? I’m strapped in and ready to burn.
Song #37 —back to sleaze, grit,
and enough glam-stomp titude to knock the teeth out of every fake smile in the room. This one’s not about love or lust. It’s about fuckin’ revenge —
but make it sexy. Make it strut.
Left lipstick prints on my kickstand
Said, “Baby, you’re cute—but the drummer lasts longer—
She lit a smoke with my last regret
Told me, “Frontmen age like cigarettes.”
Swappin’ lips for another suit
Traded solos for tighter fists
Now she’s bangin’ bass and killin’ keys
Yeah, she left me for the backline—sweet and cruel
Guess every rockstar’s someone’s fool
I wrote her songs, she stole my stash
Gave my leher to some poser trash
Except you’re moanin’ when I ride.”
Now she’s inked up with my last verse
She’s got his hands where mine once stayed
And my old chains wrapped ‘round his braid
She left me for the backline, no encore
Slammed the van and fucked the floor
While I choke on lines I can’t remove
Yeah, she left me for the backline—sleek and slick
She ain’t a groupie—she’s a goddamn war
And I can’t blame her, hell, I’d go too
If I wasn’t still stuck missin’ her ttoos
Now I play her song every night
Just to feel that old stage fright
I still bleed in verse two
Now she’s main stage in someone else’s cage
But I ain’t bitter—I’m just loud
Yeah, she left me for the backline—what a way
To teach a frontman how to play
Mic’s still hot
But my bed’s gone cold—
In the fold.
37 done —loud, bitter, sexy,
and shredding through betrayal with a bottle and a grin.
Song #38 —even-numbered, so we’re stepping into the deeper,
darker wers again. No glam. No glitter. Just raw ache,
sensual obsession, and that unshakable truth that scent is memory’s dirtiest weapon.
This one drips with longing. It’s about the aftermath of skin-to-skin heat —
when they’re gone,
but the smell’s still there. It clings to your sheets, your lungs,
your guilt. You breathe it in like poison… and beg for another hit.
Ghosts that Know My Title
Ghosts that Know My Title