Cracking the door comes first, then taking needle to skin.
To vein. To brain. To warm everything.
To numbed seances. To lifeless limbs.
I don't sink spade to soil but I helped dig the grave.
I shouldn't have kicked down the door the knobs always work.
I just can't find the link between my temper to love a support.
I still carry the splinter like ink well pens in my palms
writing regret on my forehead with hands so lost.
I'd rather poison the roots than suffer the fruit of it all
Toil into blood and bone for Rooms with blacker walls.
Arms wide, a**ume transgression. Basking in cold fluorescent light.
Aiming for little more than Rooms with barren floors
Curled up, caked in stale sweat and sh**
Too f**ing dead to even twitch Just to find the blackest walls.
Rot away inside.
Burn, rot, exonerate.
Ascending the walls is all that matters now.
The walls are all that matter now.