Late at night most are tucked in bed,
Warm and cozy amid layers of cotton comfort...

You see it, I think
in my eyes...

We mock, and we tear, and we break, and we rip,
Because we judge, and we assume, and we analyze...

Sometimes
and by sometimes...

Where to plant, I cannot guess,
these tired, wayward feet...

I can't want her.
This emotion is contrary to my piety...

You know that feeling,
when you are surrounded by a crowd...

Why do you choose to sit there alone,
Holding the scissors, the knife, the razor blade...

I give this to you,
please...

As you speak those words
I wonder...

The antithesis of my love makes their...
and their identity is not the hate I would expect...

In that strange wasteland,
of both bright and dark...