They called you part of their bad stories,
They claimed you try to steal their histories,
They said you appeared in most of their bad dreams,
They gave you a bucket of flowers and in returns you fill their nights with one giant red moon and black stars,
Was this supposed to be told?
Something unreal is about to come in paper sheets,
Its like a trench,
Deep in the ocean bed,
Like bad words you always hear,
They're all making a deep cut right here.
