No more bread for the priestess,
she's praying for a taste;
those charcoal eyes that stain a porcelain face.
For virgins under cherry trees
give them lacerations,
because the hues in my iris are affliction
I'm the hate in a hot wind,
tangled in funeral lace

Climb up the steeple, gun in my hand,
I'm confessing my love to the dead
Our pretty little pictures, the notes
in our hands, all but ashes in the end
A great white death, and hold your ear to my ribcage,
nothings precious anymore

Forgetting what the need is
while looking to fill it
the minds now distended like the stomachs
arms like dying birch trees, and when I wake up
claw my way into the nightmare
where clemency is worthless
to wrap the skies in electrical tape
Every breath is an escape;
I'm the hate in a hot wind,
tangled in funeral lace

Climb up the steeple, gun in my hand,
I'm confessing my love to the dead
Our pretty little pictures, the notes
in our hands, all but ashes in the end
A great white death, and hold your ear to my ribcage,
nothings precious anymore