his bed was cold
and made of tombstone
and his sheets were starchy and made my skin crawl..

but
i still layed in the grave he dug for me
and
i shut off the lights in my head
And I sealed my eyelids shut with ice
so the rivers of emotion wouldn't seap through.
he had bought my skin for the night
he had bought my soul
so I layed there  
trying to dream up an excuse to escape the reality of his skin on mine
and
In my dream
I had built a house
a really pretty house
out of sticks and stones that can't break my bones
and in a place where the sun always shined
but now that I'm waking up
the woods rotting and there's maggots in the floor boards
from all the girls innocence that you murdered here
and all the walls and doors that I built up
you tore down
how am I supposed to hide
from a monster like you
In a place reduced to wood chips..?
And now since all the ***** hit the fan
and youre six feet under my skin
do you mind telling me
why you call your bed your tombstone
while you're very much alive and breathing
and i'm the one left dead?