Needle thin girls with little morals.
I stay brainwashed in this toxic land.
What a grand cover for your pure existence.
But oh how beautiful your skin is when you can see the bones through it.
Transparent to the naked eye, are you satisfied?
The fiends, they want to see death in my eyes but now they appear in yours.
They tell me I'll never be loved unless I remain as thin as finger bones.
Black is all I see as I tip over.
I can't detach reality from the bathroom mirror.
No shoes on the lukewarm floor but it feels like walking on ice cold water.
And if I bruise from kneeling half my short lived life you'll understand more when I tell you, this isn't beauty this is pain.
But maybe beauty is pain, or why would we injure for it?
Because the wrenching on my throat tastes better than anything.
My body screams, 'Give me something!', and I mistake it for put some lemon in your boiling over water.
The devil itself lives inside black coffee so I sip it while the numbers drop.
Watching, 1 2 3, they climb now and he or she, both, screams 'Don't let them!''.
I don't question, I listen, but I question more than exceptional.
We aren't weak we chant but we are slaves to the only thing we can make sense of, the least sane conduct there is.
We slowly vanish because we want to be seen.
So, please, think twice before joining the needle thin girls with little morals.
