Bloodflowers - The Cure
I feel the frustration of losing absolute signal and connection when I plant myself inside my greenhouse, where all the heat falls when the sun is enticed. I can feel myself losing it. I lose it. And I always lose.
It's like a heaven kind of loss. Like I've died. Yesterday was just a dream, and today's production was the hour of my death. Amen?
Stepping foot through the threshold is my kind of pearly gates, but instead of being welcomed and invited, I crashed this fucking place. It's like the forsaken collection, a prison where you are freed when you please to be. You'll be damned, in front of me, beside me, on me, under me, with me. My regrets will be yours to regret while my memories are yours to wash your hands with. The sins I've committed that let the outside of this place be a reality that makes you as human as possible. Possibly primitive, and maybe you'll pray away the dirt off your feet.
But I won't.
I let the acid burn of my wrong become the tight skin I wear now. I peel and squeal and curse for it away as I always take it out of the closet and put it back on again. My teeth bare themselves so hungrily, angrily. Intensely, the intent of the famine in my chest, down wholly to the trickling echo of my very core, I clench them sharp on top of one another, shut myself tight with my jaw, and hope that I won't spill out and over the edges. Not now. Not today. Not when the sun is watching me. But here, tonight, any night, when the sun knows to trust me, I disobey, I rebel, and I lash. I take, then I grab, then I stare. I hold, I beat a thunder out of my chest, I breathe, just to lose my breath. Then I lose my words, open my mouth, and keep them apart. My hands know to do it wrongly right. And here I am, shattering and breaking apart inside as I become. Yes, I become the being of the only thing I know.
I'd rather have the whispers, the secrets, the sighs and the moans, and the grazing to be with here, tonight, any night.
The mirrors turned. The lights off.
In darkness we trust.
It's like a heaven kind of loss. Like I've died. Yesterday was just a dream, and today's production was the hour of my death. Amen?
Stepping foot through the threshold is my kind of pearly gates, but instead of being welcomed and invited, I crashed this fucking place. It's like the forsaken collection, a prison where you are freed when you please to be. You'll be damned, in front of me, beside me, on me, under me, with me. My regrets will be yours to regret while my memories are yours to wash your hands with. The sins I've committed that let the outside of this place be a reality that makes you as human as possible. Possibly primitive, and maybe you'll pray away the dirt off your feet.
But I won't.
I let the acid burn of my wrong become the tight skin I wear now. I peel and squeal and curse for it away as I always take it out of the closet and put it back on again. My teeth bare themselves so hungrily, angrily. Intensely, the intent of the famine in my chest, down wholly to the trickling echo of my very core, I clench them sharp on top of one another, shut myself tight with my jaw, and hope that I won't spill out and over the edges. Not now. Not today. Not when the sun is watching me. But here, tonight, any night, when the sun knows to trust me, I disobey, I rebel, and I lash. I take, then I grab, then I stare. I hold, I beat a thunder out of my chest, I breathe, just to lose my breath. Then I lose my words, open my mouth, and keep them apart. My hands know to do it wrongly right. And here I am, shattering and breaking apart inside as I become. Yes, I become the being of the only thing I know.
I'd rather have the whispers, the secrets, the sighs and the moans, and the grazing to be with here, tonight, any night.
The mirrors turned. The lights off.
In darkness we trust.
