I have stolen things that I didn't need,
and I've scraped perfect skin to watch it bleed.
You call me unhealthy, yet love the gore,
crawling toward each dirty, disfigured whore.
They say we're homicidal, pilled-up wrecks,
living for amnesia's negative sex.
Cruel intentions rip the stars from your face,
wrapping your soul in a leather embrace...
But I have to admit I want you... dead,
corroding in that disease-ridden bed,
dissolving in synthetic paradise
while struggling to enthrall and entice
the sluts who would fuck your corpse if you died,
licking the path that you walked without pride.
I know better now, and you're worth much less
than I paid for you when I was obsessed.