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Candles gleam in the waning moonlight,

A pen in a bloody hand scratches across burnt paper.

This is the last time, my Love,

That You shall ever hear my name spoken again.

Waiting and waiting...

Waiting to hear the sound of flesh ripping.

The ink dries, black and crimson,

Words permanently embellished in a letter to Him:



Listen to the screeching and groaning of the Voice.

Kiss my letter of revenge, sweet sickly revenge,

Leaving a scornful mark of black lips.

Crawl beneath the willow in the yard of the dead,

Laugh a little, blow the candles out,

Remember that time - the time You said "I love you".

(Stupid, stupid little girl, naive little harlot.)

Remember when You made me feel happy inside,

Remember when You told me the roses would bloom death for me?

Remember when we violated ourselves? Liberated the passion?

Bled for one another?

Said we'd be together?

Fucked beneath the stars?

I'm sorry, Baby.



Take my sliver sword, reach it toward the sky.

"It's not my fault."

Lower it, kiss the blade glittered with the blood of the heavens.

"It's your fault."

Take the silver saber, raise it to my temple.

"If you can't have me, then neither can anyone else."

Pull - listen to the sound echo in the night.

Feel the warmth spilling out of my caving head.

Ignite the flames of pain....

Take them and blow my fantasies away.