LRC歌词

I am used to being loved oh so fiercely
It leaves bruises to bloom on my skin.
I am used to being loved without mercy,
So forgive me for breaking when you walked in.

And in the spaces between conversations,
Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.
Isn’t it strange that I’m afraid?

I am used to being used as a punchbag,
For catharsis, a means to an end.
I am used to being used as a fallback,
So forgive my distrust of your good intent.

And in the spaces between conversations,
Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.
Isn’t it strange that I’m afraid?

I’ve spent so long being misunderstood
That you tell me I’m good,
And I turn away.
I’ve spent so long being battered and hurt that
When you tell me I’m worth it,
There’s an aftertaste.
‘Cause you treat me like a person and I’m not sure I’m deserving,
Still I wonder if I can be saved.
But I am used to being hated,
And for years I have wasted away,
Smeared with the ashes of the mess that they made
Of my brain.

And in the spaces between conversations,
Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.
Isn’t it strange that I’m afraid
To be known? To be known? To be known?

文本歌词

I am used to being loved oh so fiercelyIt leaves bruises to bloom on my skin.I am used to being loved without mercy,So forgive me for breaking when you walked in.And in the spaces between conversations,Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.Isn’t it strange that I’m afraid?I am used to being used as a punchbag,For catharsis, a means to an end.I am used to being used as a fallback,So forgive my distrust of your good intent.And in the spaces between conversations,Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.Isn’t it strange that I’m afraid?I’ve spent so long being misunderstoodThat you tell me I’m good,And I turn away. I’ve spent so long being battered and hurt thatWhen you tell me I’m worth it, There’s an aftertaste.‘Cause you treat me like a person and I’m not sure I’m deserving,Still I wonder if I can be saved.But I am used to being hated,And for years I have wasted away,Smeared with the ashes of the mess that they made Of my brain.And in the spaces between conversations,Our words are lost, and I am found in their place.Isn’t it strange that I’m afraidTo be known? To be known? To be known?

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