There's a wound, a ravine
a gaping hole in my machine
and it's bleeding up a flood, a river
There's these small parasites
killing bloodcells, all the whites
and they're starting, now, to bud, to deliver.
And my skin is growing dead
And there are faces in my head
and I love them only half what they should like
And I know, that when I sleep,
my eyes stay open, all to keep
my hands from scraping off that flesh with all their might.
There's a scab, there's an itch
there's a body in a ditch
And we're screaming pleas to scratch it all away
Here's some tape, here's some booze
Wash yourself clean of that ooze
You can't heal it if you want to have your way.
I'm okay, this is best
I'll scratch open all the rest
Amputation just might be worth the relief
Kill my heart, kill my machine,
There's more parasites to bring,
love and loss was only meant as aperitif.