you’re all the f*cking same.
and waiting for a savior that was there all along.
you’re all the same poison.
with perfect lives and cruel intentions.
a trail of blood.
you’ve f*cking built the skin.
give the paper something to talk about.
give the readers something to talk about.
saylor lake’s got a mean howl.
careful at night, better watch out!
decorate her funeral with open wounds,
when the sorrow pours like water,
down a cold and restless body.
slowly flows a river;
in the river we will gaze.
up the stairs, down the hall,
into the bed she crawled.
to place a panicked phone call,
but she was struck in the head with a blunt object.
when everything’s gone, it’s quiet and we want nothing more.