You're the cause and cure of my existential crises,
The only living thing stopping me from identifying as a solipsist.
I burn through you like a fake-anarchist burns money;
Facile and hollow, the actions hold no meaning.
Yet we've become slaves of ritual, so we both stay armed
To the teeth with matchsticks, ready to strike at first light,
First sign of a Code Red, both dead, both dead.
And our blood is already made of petrol.
Sometimes *** is just a fire in the frozen wasteland
That love once kept green and thriving.
Sometimes you get so close to the fire
That you think it feels like it's thriving again.