Masochists. Insomniacs. Martyrs.
But will you ever forgive me…
I am in a really bad place right now.
The walls are closing in on me, whispering,
Glaring while their shadows weave my ill fate.
This sick skin is itching, I need to scratch, but don’t know how
And sweat is breaking out – every lazy drop sizzling,
Scalding this ailing body, its eerie kisses branding hate.
Serious faces and solemn promises dissolved my fun.
I want to get out, I need to, but I wasn’t taught how
And the ground in this hole is red and slippery
My mind is a torture chamber with no door.
Those promises are fading.
Do I die tomorrow if I live for now?
Past doubts and dreamy illusions creep on me
Trying to get me while I’m down.
And gentle touch is slowly jading.
Small feet are hanging just above the stained floor.
Will I allow myself to survive the night?
This every line is like a whip-crack against my back,
Another step towards my greatest low.
I’m kneeling on shattered glass, on thorns
While the ink on my fingers proves me wrong.
My purity is like a myth, a tale that lost its track
Like angels with broken halos lost in the sinful mass.
As the throbbing moon takes on an eerie glow
God, please, let this be my last martyr song.
But will you ever forgive me?
I am in a really bad place right now.
The walls are closing in on me, whispering,
Glaring while their shadows weave my ill fate.
This sick skin is itching, I need to scratch, but don’t know how
And sweat is breaking out – every lazy drop sizzling,
Scalding this ailing body, its eerie kisses branding hate.
Serious faces and solemn promises dissolved my fun.
I want to get out, I need to, but I wasn’t taught how
And the ground in this hole is red and slippery
My mind is a torture chamber with no door.
Those promises are fading.
Do I die tomorrow if I live for now?
Past doubts and dreamy illusions creep on me
Trying to get me while I’m down.
And gentle touch is slowly jading.
Small feet are hanging just above the stained floor.
Will I allow myself to survive the night?
This every line is like a whip-crack against my back,
Another step towards my greatest low.
I’m kneeling on shattered glass, on thorns
While the ink on my fingers proves me wrong.
My purity is like a myth, a tale that lost its track
Like angels with broken halos lost in the sinful mass.
As the throbbing moon takes on an eerie glow
God, please, let this be my last martyr song.
But will you ever forgive me?