Song story
this is a song about the weaponisation of hope. It's about being offered just enough relief to keep enduring the thing that's hurting you, until endurance itself is mistaken for recovery.
Lyrics
Give me the fever, Give me the shakes. Give me the counterfeit cure That the pharmacist makes. The room is getting small, And the hallway is narrow. A little borrowed quiet, Sinking into the marrow. I’m curling myself Into a tight, defensive ball, Against the floral wallpaper, Waiting for the ceiling to fall. You metered out the dosage So I’d never quite recover. Half-cure, half-contagion. All premeditated. Keep me on the edge of better, Keep the terror steady. My nervous system’s frayed enough, Frayed enough already. Give me the fever, Give me the shakes. Give me the counterfeit cure That the pharmacist makes. On the edge of better. On the edge of better. Yeah, I’m a wrecking ball With nowhere to swing, Just suspended by the cable Of your latest little string. I had the whole world spinning On the tip of my thumb, And I dropped it in the gutter Just to answer your call. I’m learning how to lie still And call it getting well. You stand in the doorway, Clinical and clean. You got under the dermis, You colonised the bloodstream. A foreign body playing host In my own house. It’s in the capillaries. It’s in the jaw. The most exquisite little poison That the coroner ever saw. It’s in the capillaries. It’s in the jaw. Keep me on the edge of better, Keep the terror steady. My nervous system’s frayed enough, Frayed enough already. Give me the fever, Give me the shakes. Give me the counterfeit cure That the pharmacist makes. Sick on the medicine. Sick of it all. Still on the edge of better. Sick on the medicine. Sick of it all, Sick of it all, Sick of it all.