I’ve been tuning my veins to static again,
Bleeding feedback through a coffin mic.
Every kindness I conjure’s a séance—
Each “oh, thank you!” a ghost light.
I stitched my heart with violin strings,
Bow snapping under the weight of hope.
The love I give burns cathedral-bright—
Yet no one prays beneath its smoke.
My ribs are pews, my chest an altar,
Where loneliness hums in guttural growls.
I scream “see me!” to the mirror’s face,
But all that answers is the howl.
The Maestro of my misery conducts in shadows,
Violins made from vertebrae.
Every verse I write, a requiem
For the warmth that slipped away.
I don’t want worship—just witness.
Someone to love the rot and roses both.
To kiss the cracks beneath my corpse paint
And see the pulse still fighting in the smoke.
My kindness is a distortion pedal,
Maxed out in the mix of grief.
I offer love like a blood communion,
But no one drinks—no one believes.
So I dance alone in this haunted hall,
My heart in 6/8, my soul in flames.
Waiting for the one who’ll hear my tremor
And hum my name in the dark refrain.
If they come—I’ll hand them my skull,
Let them read the verses carved inside.
Because this love I bleed isn’t human—
It’s holy. It’s hellborn.
It’s the final scream before the lights subside.