You beat me at my own game—  
Once, twice, thrice—yours to claim.  
No. Scratch that.  

A prisoner, I linger in your void,  
What I assume, you shall assume.  
For every atom belonging to me  
As good belongs to you.  

I am the sickness you clutch,  
The wound that rots without cure.  
I win when misery becomes your hymn,  
When peace is but a ghost you cannot touch.  

O lover! O peace! I reject you both!  
I shall not be a lover—no.  
For love would banish me,  
And I would vanish from this dream.  

In torment's halls, I make my home,  
A parasite in flesh and bone.  

I sing the song of your destruction,  
The note of your ruin.  
And in your death, I win.