The rose for your mom bleeds red while my hands bleed black

I can see the smudges im leaving on your back while you're leaving prints on me
Keep smiling and whispering "please", we can stay in that white room where your emotional shield lays in the second drawer
Where the showerhead washes away the dirt and grime of our every day lives
Where our laughs resonate off the walls and ricochet back to make us feel less lonely
Where you promised you weren't afraid of anything but flinched at the idea of admitting I'm right


Those white walls are speaking our names like a Mantra from a forgotten language, a language only found when our mouths move together.