Medea, Morgana, and Jezebel,
say that if I still have a soul left to sell,
they'll gladly lie with me and hold me real tight,
so for once in my life I might sleep through the night.

But I'll stay up alone till the sun scrapes the sky,
cause my talent is tied to this pain and my pride,
So I'll never feel better, I won't clean the slate,
No I won't ever be happy, because I want to be great.

Im a man made of gold with a heart made of fire,
I'll melt down to **** giving into desire,
I'm surrounded but I'm still all alone,
because ambition won't let me pick up the phone.

I'll trace these empty circles around empty words,
and I'll use a razor to cut my soul into thirds,
One to the devil to pay for my ambition,
One to my obsession for the blood on the ground,
and one to Medea.

I've got whiplash from all the places your swinging me,
you've got me in heaven, you've got me in hell,
falling asleep against my chest, keeping me at arms length,
what am I and where do I stand on this blurred line you've drawn?

Sorry I fell for you. Bad call.
I was an emotional pit stop,
and now I'm *******,
and you do not care.

I get it. I actually do. I used to do the same.
You got what you needed from me.
A shoulder to cry on, some feelings,
and now I'm inconvenient.

I'm not angry at you, just myself,
because I keep being taught,
and I keep on forgetting,
the difference between someone who cares and someone who needs you.

I'm in the middle of a two face Gemini genocide,
people tell me that I'm Jekyll but the mirror says mister Hyde,
I have a room full versions of me that have already died,
keep em locked in the basement veins full of formaldehyde.

Oh won't someone come stitch me back together,
stretch my skin over new bones so I can feel better,
wash the aftertaste of my failure off of my tongue,
get the ashes of my innocence out of my lungs.

I'm sorry that I'm singing this, I swear I'm not your fault,
I want to be a better man, but this is my default.
I'm split in so many pieces that it seems I've lost my mind,
When did I choose pride, and leave my soul behind?

Oh won't someone come stitch me back together,
stretch my skin over new bones so I can feel better,
wash the aftertaste of my failure off of my tongue,
get the ashes of my innocence out of my lungs.

hope you don't see this side of me, I'm sorry if you do
I just wanted you to know that I'm trying to be new.
I don't want to be the way I am, I don't want to be Mr. Hyde,
please don't lose your faith in me, I'm still alive inside.

Oh won't someone come stitch me back together,
stretch my skin over new bones so I can feel better,
wash the aftertaste of my failure off of my tongue,
get the ashes of my innocence out of my lungs.

I'm in this ring boxing with a ghost,
a poltergeist of my past transgressions.
He knows all the things I fear the most,
that I haven't changed, that all I've learned are false lessons.

He's made of hard forged steel,
indestructible and cold to touch,
his eyes glow with pride and a devil's deal,
nothing will be enough, let alone too much.

Sometimes when its cold out,
I think maybe I should let him possess me,
go back to being above morals and doubt,
Back to who I used to be.

I don't want to die happy, I want to die insane,
driven mad by my lust for success.
I need nothing and no one at my death bed,
because if my name is remembered I'm not dead.

I want to bleed and cry and break my body,
all for a few minutes of fame and glory.
Even surrounded I'll still be alone,
all so that when I'm in the ground I'll still be known.

I'll wander like Cain through the world,
with a damning mark I put on myself,
I'll wake up too early, go to bed too late,
I won't ever be happy, because I want to be great

"And the day of his birth shall carry with it all the joy of a barren field in spring, all the glory of a lowing ox as it dies,
and all the beauty of the midden heap."

Thus was it promised. His birthright was dirt on a coffin.
Thus was it spoken. His inheritance shall be only tragedy.
Thus was it written. His every breath will suffocate the sun.

And so it was. Only in dusk does he walk, and his domain is the cairn. Weeping martyrs and orphaned children are his chorus,
and the rushing of blood is the trumpet of his inglorious arrival.