you are a skeleton of a man with long spider legs and carpenters hands, you stand, abandoned ship, you can't, a quiet drip from your rusted faucet sings
...not as a body, not as a mind, not as a heart but as a living soul. not as a race, not as a creed, not as a sex, but that's everything...
You are every ounce of horror, every reminding second of a completely terrible life. You're the single most constant mistake of why most my body aches
I've seen you sitting in your bed, in your brown gown of dead flowers. And inside your room, in its corners where spiders crawl, and a sour dream centipede
it's all building up, bottleneck backbreak, backstabbing stepping stone. the world is burning, and i am your carpet. behead the white horse, god is screaming
That whisper, your curling razor, mistakenly wound around my tongue to squeeze some fucking truth from that wicked obsession, your obsession, where I
you, my friend, deserve things like spring as reference to your majesty. but nothing draws conclusion in the bones of your face when you've dismissed
When hands meet here, skin forms. from tube thru skin and from my mouth. your all painted and dressed up for confusion this in all ends. meet complications