The storm has dispersed
But these days I chase the flame to the wick
And I wonder which will die first?
You can call me sick
Or you can call me deranged
But these days I can't help but to picture my funeral
And I'd look pseudo-beautiful
And I'd indulge in the empathy of what my body has done to me
And I've become just a sentiment of chronic disfigurement
And if I'm forced to live this life, it justifies my suicide
Thank your God that you're not like me
A life cursed with abnormalities
If the sutures split
Let the mortician in
I've been picking holes in my skin
My breath flutters like an engine that won't start
My body's sore, and stiff, and it screams when it's pulled apart
I watch the sun rise and set through the blinds of my window
Moonlight cascading as the wind causes the trees to blow
It's the same mundane routine every night
I've become invisible, and I'm waiting to die
But in my dreams, I'm queen of Katahdin
Or I'm the heiress of the mountain
Or a Goddess who bleeds love and lust
And her actions are fair and just