The Prizefighters - Seam

If there is one thing I can’t forgive

It’s making me feel the weakest, and limp

I should’ve hit you like I meant it

But I can’t hear over those words

I’d knock you for that, and your eye’s going black

This kind of hate makes me sick

But I’m onto it, I’m onto it

My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it

Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it

My hook softening, as I listen

To the hollow sound that’s drumming your ribs

I lose the grip on your neck

When it’s over, and you’re gone

I’m sitting and crying

This kind of hate makes me sick

But I’m onto it, I’m onto it

My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it

Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it

What was that meaning, that breaking of skin

Have I proven it, have I proven it?