They could all die before your eyes change back to blue.
I swore I wouldn't follow, but today I'm going too.
Tomorrow when the tourniquet is taken from my skin,
inject the poison in the wound, accentuating sin.
Beauty drips from bitter hands.
Underneath your cruel demands.
The songs you wrote on the wall when you were twelve
(reminders of old picture frames upon once bloodstained shelves)
are looking back and telling you to stay locked in that vice
until the night turns back to day and starts to melt the ice.
Take the parts you want and go.
Before summer takes the snow.
Yesterday was overdone, so make it new tonight.
Innocence does not exist when eyes are far from white.
They won't remember what you say, but everything you do
will echo in their minds for years until they join you too.