serve me lies waitress and kiss the limbless mimes
Silhouettes of Handgrenade Raindrops
Consult me of your evil experiments. Stitch my chest up and give me new
lungs. Fill my brain with ecstatic sirens. Ship me off to where the
rainbow gives birth to vivid sights that you would never deserve to see
and Ill live in this confined space in the back of your mind. Lock up
your tongue in a hooker's dialect. Cause thats where it belongs.
I guess beauty drips from your frozen fingertips like I hypothesized
when you gave me the bill for my phantom grave. Invert this chemical
romance into the poison that you made me and offer you a picture of a
slow sweet death hidden in the sewers of Downtown. Shove a situation of
honest regrets into my face.
Mr. Ashbury said you deserved black and blue bruises plastered to your
face and plastic surgery from the man downstairs and metal plates bolted
to your heart so you wont get me lost in the map with burned edges. Go
ahead and ask for my name. It doesnt exist in your vast sea of false
information and smells of bitter betrayal.
When you're done eating my skeleton I hope you choke on my heart and
wish that it wasn't still beating so your throat could still process
the assembly line of black lectures lost in the cemetery with the
orchestra playing a song about mimes with mutilated limbs who dance to
the nonexistent sound of your shadows.
It feels luxurious watching you rip off the millionaire smile from my cheeks.
Consult me of your evil experiments. Stitch my chest up and give me new
lungs. Fill my brain with ecstatic sirens. Ship me off to where the
rainbow gives birth to vivid sights that you would never deserve to see
and Ill live in this confined space in the back of your mind. Lock up
your tongue in a hooker's dialect. Cause thats where it belongs.
I guess beauty drips from your frozen fingertips like I hypothesized
when you gave me the bill for my phantom grave. Invert this chemical
romance into the poison that you made me and offer you a picture of a
slow sweet death hidden in the sewers of Downtown. Shove a situation of
honest regrets into my face.
Mr. Ashbury said you deserved black and blue bruises plastered to your
face and plastic surgery from the man downstairs and metal plates bolted
to your heart so you wont get me lost in the map with burned edges. Go
ahead and ask for my name. It doesnt exist in your vast sea of false
information and smells of bitter betrayal.
When you're done eating my skeleton I hope you choke on my heart and
wish that it wasn't still beating so your throat could still process
the assembly line of black lectures lost in the cemetery with the
orchestra playing a song about mimes with mutilated limbs who dance to
the nonexistent sound of your shadows.
It feels luxurious watching you rip off the millionaire smile from my cheeks.