Look straight through me,
look at the nightmare
Our past is but a dream
that we're trying to escape,
trying to evade, to erase ourselves
Look through me and see:
the advent of our obsessions
Behold, your child, perfection;
a rotting shell of atrophy

Watching: crowds like crows
We furiously flock to tragedy,
observe the hurt then hasten back
to our peaceful, quiet nests of blasphemy

Scapegoat: rather die and know
Drag your failing body in tow,
witnessing the wake,
conflagrate the ready oil at the stake

Binging the culmination of purging:
what our lusts have borne
We hoarded all the world to find
we'd lost any semblance
of ourselves

This dying dance...

I am not my own reflection
I am not myself, I am not myself, no
I am haunted by a non-existent lover
The spectre, the ghost,
the soul-starving host
I am haunted by a non-existent lover

I was gifted with the vision
But cursed to be the witness

I'll be pale to match the walls,
and warped to trace the beams,
flushed to fit across the floor
so you can step right over me
Scouring this filthy slate
These crooked bones,
they won't break straight:
cracked and splintered like our house,
upended by that first summer squall

Fading: so thin, you could snap me
into the shape you need
Gaunt enough to slide
through that wedding dress,
then stitch me to a fraying matrimony:
embalmed inside a never-ending ceremony

I am not my own reflection
I am not myself, I am not myself
No, I am haunted by a non-existent lover
The spectre, the ghost,
the soul-starving host
I am haunted by a non-existent lover

I was gifted with the vision
But cursed to be the witness

Invisible to me
Invisible to me
Invisible to me