You've been talking about death for hours on end,
You're making a mistake
You think to yourself, rubbing alcohol tears.
Will you tuck this one under your bed
With the rest of your color book monsters,
Who conspire in the heat of the moment
And light the fire right beneath you?
Lately I've been having these feverish dreams,
Where these cheap curtains keep the desert outside
And a turbine pumps blood only let out at night.
No comments:
Post a Comment