How do I tell you That your voice sounds like wish white and sky blue That your skin smells like brown pages and earl grey That your touch feels like cherry blossom in spring That I miss you like a tainted mirror misses reflections
Delusional teenagers in their burgundy dreams, Never noticing those tears at the seams, Breaking hearts all day long, At night they cry "is that so wrong?"
There is a story of a girl who was sweet in mid-bloom, She painted colours of rich on a canvas in her room. But this girl has a secret - a sad little twist, Her paintbrush a razor, and the canvas her wrist.
Like a moth to the flame I fell for your love, am I to blame? Was this what nature intended or have I become that which I least desired? The cruel, harsh shape of your words come to me like a moth to the flame, I am that flame, and I am dying.