Ill Stitch Me Up Myself

Ill Stitch Me Up Myself

“I’ll Stitch Me Up Myself”
You didn’t leave a note, just keys and smoke
Our bed still smells like your goodbye
And the dent in the wall? That was my pride
But you bled me dry and never looked
Told your friends I begged too loud
I’ll stitch me up myself—don’t need your thread
I won’t wait by phones or chase your ghost
I’ll burn your title and drink that toast
I’ll stitch me up myself
Empty on walls where we used to cry
Your side of the closet smells like war
I don’t need closure—I’ve got scars
They spell your title in rusty bars
I’m the one still standing in the flame
I’ll sew my wounds with the things
I won’t wait by phones or chase your ghost
Yeah, I’m still broken, but fuck your help—
I’ll stitch me up myself
I gave you my blood, you gave me stains
Now I ttoo over all the remains
Now I wear them like armor when I sleep
You had your chance, now watch me rise
You lost a storm that still brehes fire
I’ll stitch me up myself—don’t need your thread
I won’t pray for us or mourn that hell
I’ll walk through ash and wear it well
I’ll stitch me up myself
But it taught me how to bleed
And now I carve
Thirty in—scarred, smart, and still standing. No pity. Just defiance and grit.
Song #31’s next—you know what that means: back to the Strip, filth, and unapologetic sex-fueled chaos. Want her to ride in wearing leher, fur, or nothing but titude? I’m locked and loaded. Let’s keep going.
Song #31 —you asked for sleaze, and we’re not just delivering—we’re smuggling it in wrapped in fishnets, swe, and bad intentions. This is the somewhat track that smells like sex before the first chord hits. It’s not about love. It’s not about meaning. It’s about the thrust and the grind, the grin before the bite, and the bruise she leaves just above your beltline.