This is the skin that I saw
And from the sin that I draw
This is the skin
This is the sin
This is the tin
of my heart.

This is the sound of my sex
This is the heart which I vex
This is the skin
This is the sin
This is the tin
of my heart.

This is the boy whom I hold
These are the words I once told
This is the skin
This is the sin
This is the tin
of my heart.

It seems to me the body is a cage,
It seems to me my heart is a stage,
And all of the dark words full, a page,
about the state of sexual squander.

It seems to me a boy,
It seems to me a toy,
It seems to me a ploy,
for our hearts.
That he could have my skin,
that he could share in my sin,
that he could break the tin
of my heart.
That we could shout to the hills
and make love, or f***, if there
is even a difference to the sound
of our sex, our sin, our skin on another.

This is the fear of my heart
This is the end to my start
This is the skin
This is the sin
This is the tin
of my heart.

And in my skin, such fears,
and in their eyes, such leers,
and in my love, such tears,
that to be in such skin
should be some sin.
That in him I find my own skin,
that in my own beauty I find sin,
that in the night I could hear the ring
of the tin of my heart, somewhere,
cold from the fear of my own skin,
from a sense of sin, from a sense of kin,
in this boy who holds me as if no other
ever loved enough to put the day to rest.
Because I tire and in this loose flesh I feel
just like the phony words I once uttered not
to them but to myself because it was I
who felt, in such skin, only sin could thrive
and in this heart, such broken tin.

This is the skin
This is the sin
This is the tin
of my heart.