It's the flame that burns through each layer of skin
if you resist, you can try to save yourself from these sins
It's bottled upon the top cabinet, to the right, in the left side of the kitchen,
next to the cabinet there's a window
letting the hazy skyline fill in the unspoken words from your lips
You can try to conceal these wrongs, drink away this burning flame
but the ashes will always remain.
Look, and walk around, the cursive words
scribbled on the doors of bathroom stalls
abandoned buildings to sinful to care who desecrates them any further
Soon, you don't have to see but hear
the drying throat, hope to swallow more doubt into the pit of hell.
The longer you bear this pain, the more time will reach its last hour
and when the world has shut the door on your face
leaving you in limited space
these secrets will be written on your arsenic bones
and all that will remain is the secrets heavy in the New York air.