When innocence left the room, with blood I wrote my spilled heart. If they had taught me how addictive the guts are... if only winter hadn't turned the hunger for care into the cannibalism of souls... perhaps this pity party wouldn't have been my resting hole.
Sixteen candles I now count. Soon, one more will be devoured with pink whipped cream full of salt, and my black, cracked nails will clean my pout while ripping out my tongue to keep it in a vault. Don't say how immature I'm becoming, don't scream in your actions how my future is sick with the diabetes of my feelings. I put rotten angel cake in my ears just to keep my blueberry frosting singing, so all your threats as a sweet lullaby I'm keeping.
I killed my reason when I sang happy birthday to a newborn Icarus. Your ghost stands under the balloon arch, holding promises of sugar and art, but the candles'll be blown out in 3, 2, 1...
