It's on the tip of my tongue, or in the muzzle of your gun.
Or in the fading frontal lobe
Of the boy who's most strung out
In a closet somewhere, or in the next state, you don't care.
Taped to the roof of your mouth, building up to a shout.
Building up to a shout.
You're the next best way out.
You're the next best way out for me.
You're the closest thing to reprieve.
Trust me dear, it's no shortcoming.
You're the highest rung that really bleeds.
It's like a song in the dark--I'm trying my best to sing the melody.
You say it's straight from the heart,
But I feel it emanating out from every other part of my body.
You know what it's like, and that's why you feel right.
So I'm burning the photographs of your most heinous crime.
Your gruesomest murder--for me.
That's why you're the closest thing to reprieve.
Blood of Christ on your frigid, shaking knees.
You're the only messiah that bleeds.
Pt. 2
It's not moment of glory,
Nor admittance of defeat.
And you're twice over welcome to stop listening.
And you call yourself Vulture,
You can swim, but you won't eat.
And I love you more
Than I love G0d,
But that's not saying
Very much.
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