Don't even take a breath.
The air is cut with cyanide.
In honor of the New Year.
The press gives us cause to celebrate:
These air raid sirens
Flooded barbed wire skylines,
By artificial night,
As we sleep to burn the red
From our bloodless lives.
Tonight we're all time bombs
on fault lines.
Have we lost everything now?
We're walking like each other's ghosts
Around these silent streets
(the sedatives tell you everything is alright)
Like calendars dying at New Year's Eve parties,
As we kiss hard on the lips
And swear this year will be better than the last.
Jet Black - the ink that spells your name.
Jet Black - the blood that's in your veins.
We say, "How long can we take this chance not to celebrate?"
There's music playing
But we dance to the beat
Of our own black hearts
And draw diagrams
Of suicide on each other's wrists,
Then trace them with razorblades.
Fire to Flames,
"Strike Match."
Burn these words from our lips
As 'The Dagger' screams,
"Love is dead,"
and it's a "newspaper tragedy."
Have we lost what we love?
Have we said everything?
Does it change anything?
Stare at the clock,
Avoid at all costs,
This emptiness.
Ten seconds left.
until midnight.
nine chances to drown ourselves
in black hair dye
eight faces turned away
from the shock:
seven windows and six of them
were locked.
five stories falling
forever and ever.
three cheers to the mirror.
now there are two of us.
Can we have one last dance?
How long can we take this change not to celebrate life?
But you can't change the letter when the ink dries.