• Underneath the star-lit sky our story runs so short.

    I'm sorry I'm a protestant against your love.

    Darling, you once meant everything to me, but now I barely pass a glance.

    I'm sick of your intoxicating persuasion.

    Your ill smile.

    You're a sickness, a disease.

    You're taking control of me.

    I'm your puppet on a string.

    But yet you said that there were no strings attached.

    You're a destructive obscenity breathing beneath your porcelain skin.

    Am I good enough for you? Was I ever?

    You're a living corpse.

    An infection.

    I believed your every word.

    But in reality you're just a deranged defection.

    You're not real, you never were.

    Your heart isn't pure

    I'm not even sure it exists.