It's in the fluid that fills me, turning water into smoke.
It's the rusty nail that kills me when my fingers make you choke.
And enchained are old addictions, scratching my veins to provoke
the most sensual violation that was born when you woke.
It's in the morphine that leaves me constantly medicated.
It's forgiveness that deceives me when sins are overrated.
Disfigured souls once entwined were violently separated,
and the coldest form of beauty is to be mutilated.
It's carved in the insanity that leaks from transparent skin.
It's masochistic vanity that glorifies every spin.
But purity is nothing more than a ghost of where we've been
since bloodstained skeletons set fire to the morgue we were in.