Peeling the skin on my lip, I hang on to the life I barely live.

Cracked and ripped dry from the marrow of life, how can I talk now but only to shrive?

Defined by the hand that destroys me so, I'm expected to live off of that vandal, blemishing what I've sown.

By the skin of my lip, I now bleed, and by the skin of my lip, I refuse to concede.