Texty: A Corpse Named Abel. Other. Titus Arum.

Silent stares turn us to a statue-like repose black mascara hides the somber affliction one small sigh of a quiet lullaby one last night to show what we are made of we have lost ourselves in a calculated infatuation leaving us remains of infamous operations its the perfect shape of my heart I give to you masquerading our abandoned perfections behind closed curtains they cant see what we've become a bruised and bleeding mochery of something that was once so modest reduces us to ashes of sin