Let me climb the monument of guilt,
Tattered and teetering on frayed streets,
Let me burn your paper and shadowed sun.
Yes, let me lick the dust from your heart
With a tongue that cannot speak, but weeps.
Let me water where you wilt.
Let me behead your idols of shame,
With thrust, with throe, with woe begun.
Let me distill the heart who, in sadness, steeps.
Yes, let me have you love me a little less,
For you’d be less ashamed of my love for you,
Yes, let me hurt for you without your self blame.