As we glide through these scenes with too much detail to fully grasp, each other's lives cut the shape of our own and fashion scars that make us into new people. Paintings that were in our head made their way into real life, but like all art it isn't exactly as planned.
But here you stand, covered in blood and some cliche melodramatic song in the background. With the perfume of self-mutilation it is no wonder why you encounter the disturbed vampires that you do, and with your new lover in sight the blood suits you quite well as a fucking lubricant. Blood paintings of gray, because what runs through your veins is a cancerous carcinogen that has made it's way into my lungs.
I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore, just give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more. If I had the calmness I would continue that into a song, but my disgust with you shakes my hands so much it is hard to think. These days it is hard to shake off this sickness, and I'm feeling like the quicksand will consume every small glimpse of oxygen I hold.
I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore. Like I said, give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more.
With your stupid smile in place, you can't see the farce on your forehead, and I wish I could rip off every affection I "kiss blew" to you.
My dry breath gasps for renewal, and my nicotine-stained fingers have curled into an asphyxiated despaired fist.
