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Deafheaven
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From the Kettle Onto the Coil
Stagnant strangers romance on crowded pathways below admiring the stage's glistening coat. The reflection on the sill giving the cheekbones their due. Praising the worth of porcelain skin. My shades of blonde dancing in the high sun. I gave labor to the grief. To the squinting spectator who drank in the despair as I tiptoed off the plane of existence and drifted listlessly through the velvet blackness of oblivion. I am what I always was. Gleaming and empty.
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