This light could never cast,
A sharper shade,
Then the stain of your life,
Through this mark I made.

No bird could sing,
Nor chirp a sweeter sound,
Then death finding voice,
Before you hit the ground.

The way you felt,
So truly surprised,
I cherish the hurt,
I saw in your eyes.

Every movement you ever made,
Could stop nothing in this,
No action could have known,
The price of your kiss.

Your lips have gone cold,
Your face a perfect still,
Your skin becomes so soft,
It's sad you look so ill.

But I love the way you feel,
When you know not what I do,
The taste of your tongue,
If my mother only knew.

If she knew of what I did,
These things she taught me so,
Would there be a hint of pride,
And how would that show?

Would she give me a kiss,
On the lips or a little low,
And say the things she said,
How am I to know?

The dead don't talk,
Not if they die afraid,
No, they're too scared,
Of all the marks I've made.

And I know she died in fear,
I could see it,
I could hear,
The way she screamed,
Surreal it seemed,
Like a melting mirror.

The way it seemed to drip,
From those trembling lips,
As they soon became like stone,
I could have died,
For what it's shown.

A naked figure,
Covered,
In the blood of its mother,
With a smile on its lips,
Who slipped a bit,
And killed its lover.

Now it never stops,
Not for a hundred scars,
For none could match its mothers,
The deepest by far.

It's a wound that never heals,
It slowly kills,
With blood it fills,
With the life it steals.

It's a thief,
Of everything you've ever known,
Of sampled unregret,
It finds its home,
In the pool of your blood,
Your face all upturned,
I'll leave you in fear,
And watch as you burn.

For no one could see,
This thing that I became,
Like this mark that never heals,
My lust remains.
I ache for you life,
All over my blade,
My stunning little knife,
Coloured a pretty shade.

Who could know,
That behind these black wings unfurled,
That they would find,
This damaged little girl.