Mile home, mile home
Wrote her first album in a car outside her ex-best-friend's house
the numbers
- bpm
- 152
- key
- G# major
- energy
- 0.70
- dance
- 0.94
- valence
- 0.58
- vocal at
- 2.4s
- length
- 3:06
- language
- En
lyrics
My mascara’s smeared on my sleeve I’m cutting through Eastside in thin black jeans Your key still cuts through my palm Like a quarter in a fist, cold and wrong I pass the taquería sign Grease on the paper, red sauce on my mind My phone says one seventeen And your text sits there like it meant something I hear my steps on the curb I keep my mouth shut, bite every word You left your lighter in my bag Now it smells like you and that’s my bad Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home Don’t call my phone Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home I’m walking home There’s a crack in my shoe by the bend And a bodega freezer door won’t close again Two kids on the corner laugh While I count coins in my back pocket fast Your hoodie’s in the trunk of my car Your dumb gold chain left a mark on my arm I should’ve dropped it at your door Now I’m dragging it block by block, for what I hear my steps on the curb I keep my mouth shut, bite every word You left your lighter in my bag Now it smells like you and that’s my bad Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home Don’t call my phone Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home I’m walking home By the laundromat, I slow down One sock lost, one heel kicked down I could go back, but I won’t I’ve had enough of your almost Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home Don’t call my phone Mile home, mile home I’m all alone Mile home, mile home I’m walking home