Stained rooftops, mania.
There are no rooms that are empty, just
Cells. Tying me to you, an indulgence, really
When all I want is to kill myself
Do I take you with me? It's not a ride
You are already not here anyway
I'm holding a thread to a ghost, to
an empty space
There are spaces, and there are bloodstains
Sounds if knives-- my hands stop shaking
Tragedy is familiar, in the least. The buzzing
a constant
I don't need a bed, no sugar
The bubblegum pop up loud, clear
My flinch an indication I'm here
With you
There's a part of me reaching forward
Reaching towards you
But people aren't taught to look at ghosts
look at kidnapped wills held by silence.
Stained rooftops, mania.
Our stories laid out in quiet against the
Night. Shows flickering out from the windows
of normality.
I don't want to be familiar with the
sound of knives, don't want to die
Don't want to be lost only to find
empty rooms with blood on the ceilings
There are stories I want you to know
Stars I want to look at with you.
Candy-- sweet, sick, slick, against your cheeks
Your lips, your hands
Your fingers
Hesitating over my gashes- it's not your fault,
angel
But I wish I could be pathetic enough to get your attention
The streets aren't empty even late at night
But everyone is a stranger, everything loud
Tears salty. There's no one to call out to
Me. To call out to me, to see me fall
There's no one to mourn me.
I'm glad the thread isn't there to drag you
to edge of the rooftop with me tho
You-- late, disgruntled, sleepily content
Only to see your guilt die
(Are you free? I am free
Atleast you'll die happy)