I miss my veins, the knife, the stains, the stitches and the senseless gain that designed the shrine I never left. Rain's a distraction from the fact that I've been freezing to death. Every breath ties me tighter to demise, rising for rituals, twitching through lies. Switching addictions drains life from my eyes, sucking all tact from the goals I devise, cracking the path on which every soul dies, and stacking reactions that eat my insides..
But guile is the cruelest drug. It's sharpest in the hole I've dug, dilating pupils, violating what I loved. I shoved the smiles of dreaming down my throat to stop the screaming, waited for a while, then sedated useless feelings, but healing's not an option when you're staring at the ceiling.
Concealing constant shame is a syringe for the insane. It raped disfigured skin and shaped the mannequin I became. There's no one left to blame, therefore I stay chained to the floor. It's hardest to explain without obtaining shallow gore. Desecrating hallow ground means nothing anymore to what remains, so mutilation reigns.
I miss my veins.