From here to the hearse, we wait. It's perverse. I'm cursed with the worst form of ecstasy, waking the death in me, taking what's left of me, and wasting the rest. I'm eating the flesh it dissects. Side effects fill the void I neglected, destroyed and resurrected. Now shadows are free, but the killer is me, threatening what I used to be and decreeing dependency.
I found you at a masquerade among the plastic masks I made, tainted, painted every shade of red and black, but combinations soon react, invading with grenades intact, parading through my head like blades that only wait there to attack. I gave you flesh. You gave it back. How did we get on this track? Memories are so abstract, but cemetery gates are closing quickly on the fact that you are nothing.
From here to the morgue, we're still. Every pill I adore is a thrill I abhor, but sleep is a drug and I'm killing for more. Use me like a spineless whore. Liven up the cure with chemicals and cheap allure. This bitter taste of selfish gore is just what I was asking for. Costumes crawl back to the drawer. Fluid hardens on the floor. Slither through my ribcage like you did before, but veins can never be restored and I don't love you anymore.