She was born through a neat incision
Dressed mother in scars
Nine years of respite before barbwires
Unraveled in her head
Scraping the last remains
I still live, and I still breathe
She stands on the brink of the sidewalk
Pushed off by loneliness, ghost friends
On glass hounds she rides
Away from her fate
But fate is a bleeding fist
Punching through glass dreams, so fragile
Words they say, they don’t say it all, they’ve heard
Words they say, they don’t say it all, they’ve heard
it all before
Hold a wake for me
For what’s left of me
I live in a house of distorted mirrors
I am locked, my hands are rocks
But I’m paralysed (sic)
Shadowless cannibals
Sucking me dry
I was made out of flesh
That they tore up to pieces
In their wonderland backyard
Of perfect little hedges
And the smell of the meat
It sharpens their white shiny teeth
While I roast on the grill
For the Stepford wives’ thrill
The little whore with bad manners
Who corrupts our dear daughters
Down with her head
Down with her words
We’ll never understand
I cry for thoughts I had to kill
For days I’ll never live to see
For lands I’ll never step foot on
For not knowing better
For not being better
For not being bigger
For not being like you