Tongue-tied, soul-burned from the whiskey-like wash of your solid soulessness. Moth-bitten, ate away, but I guess that's just the price I pay from thinking of you tonight, wishing I could make it right.

Because right is the coverup story for the wrongs that only I'd commit,

Just a pale, glass glory in my eyes, which is all that you'd permit,

I grew up awkward, in the face of a setting sun,

Never thought I'd have to sit around and look at what I'd done,

Because all your traces have fled from me,

Your pace is too fast for me,

This place is too real for me.

So I'll keep me hidden in the pretty little box in the corner. Sneak away in my sock drawer. Hold up by the closet door. Oh.

My heart is beating, unused to what I'm telling it. I feel its bleeding, and, oh my dear, I do feel for it, because it's love-bit and needs rewrit. I find my sick obsession so unappealing, set my own brain reeling from the sheer shock of it.