I've been running, I've been hiding, I've been praying to stay alive,
I've been losing sleep and frost covered ground to the Ghosts of January

And they come knocking, they come crawling, they come hunting for my blood, They make the summer nights feel cold and drive fear straight through my bones.

I've been singing, I've been wishing, for you to pull my pain out with your teeth, but my frost-bitten fear goes deep, and the light of smile wont cause a thaw.

So I sit behind locked doors and scream a question with hopes of a response, pleading to a God I don't have faith in, and a mother who's lost her son.

"Is heaven still an option if I drown in my own blood,
if the crimson pouring from my wrists was a result of what I've done.
Is heaven still an option if I take away my sorrow,
will the ghosts of January haunt me if I take away tomorrow?"