Standing in a cemetery, East of any Eden.
The sky is frozen, and my bones are still.
There's a rip in my tights & there's a rip in my tights.
And there's a skeleton lying in a wooden box,
Sent from Ireland, all red-headed and bones.
So I'll scream your name from behind tombstones,
the urgency dripping from my tongue,
glowing through the rip in my tights.
We are not dead yet. And yet.
You continue to exist in careful corners,
subjecting yourself to death beds for secret stories -
In tandem to refusing to die for yourself.

You will sing comforting songs to your parents,
willing to cease existence without ever causing a ruckus.