My skin bends in the mirror.
In vain I hide below the surface, howling from the day.
All the useless paper gathers around my pen, waiting for some kind of sign. Am I really sure that I know I'll be ok ?
Raindrops in the tears at the foot of it all, I say your name into the black dots of evening, left with only the gripping on my skin.
All the useless paper gathers around my pen, waiting for some kind of sign. Am I really sure that I know I'll be ok ?
Raindrops in the tears at the foot of it all, I say your name into the black dots of evening, left with only the gripping on my skin.
Let your lies tumble from your hips, you'll never be young again, you'll never return home.
Always talking to the gatekeeper but never passing through, I return back to the bending of my skin.
Awoken in your arms, stillness still something to be afraid of. When it's quiet it can always come back, at least with the noise I'm not alone.
Busted alleyway, broken underpasses, clocks glass shattered from all the passing time. Hands to tell us when it should get light again. Scrape the skin clean, to find happiness or to find the depth of the dirt, to get back to the mirrored version of yourself, of me, my skin bending in the breeze. Only just able not to fall. We descend into the early hour of morning bones, the screaming of those dreams again, more words that come at night, more nights filled from my words. Written into the only space that they can fit. It's always meant to end with this line, breaking but yet to be broken, always fractured, always me, always my skin bending in time.
No spaces left to return to.
Always talking to the gatekeeper but never passing through, I return back to the bending of my skin.
Awoken in your arms, stillness still something to be afraid of. When it's quiet it can always come back, at least with the noise I'm not alone.
Busted alleyway, broken underpasses, clocks glass shattered from all the passing time. Hands to tell us when it should get light again. Scrape the skin clean, to find happiness or to find the depth of the dirt, to get back to the mirrored version of yourself, of me, my skin bending in the breeze. Only just able not to fall. We descend into the early hour of morning bones, the screaming of those dreams again, more words that come at night, more nights filled from my words. Written into the only space that they can fit. It's always meant to end with this line, breaking but yet to be broken, always fractured, always me, always my skin bending in time.
No spaces left to return to.