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The Bled




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The Bled Album


His First Crush (2002)
2002
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I'll open up my wrists to let you in and keep you where you belong.
Nail my hands into the oak if I can never touch your face again.
Cardiac paralysis.
I cannot breathe.
Swallow my tongue if I can't say the words that will save your life.
No matter what always remember you did this to me.
I'm left with when you turned and walked away.
No matter what always remember you did this to me.
You've driven me to this.
You've turned my heart jet black.
Reopen the wounds and let them drain.
Swing the sledge to the mainframe.
And to the one that stopped my heart.
I must return the crush.

. . .



Someone go for help, she's not getting up.
The cardboard spine has buckled under the extension of her wings.
It took my breath away.
She fell for years into this haven of infection.
These hospital policies are burning my eyes.
Her swan dive antics will be the end of me.
I can't save her as she falls in love with disaster.

. . .



I'll stand knee deep in your ridicule.
Your tongue flickers as threats are made.
I've saved you a seat in hell.
Lets begin.
You can shove glass down my throat.
I need your fists against my flesh.
That would move me an honest inch.
I am through with you.
Turn your cameras off.
Show me something real.
You are nothing now without your friends.
I'll cut you to ribbons.
My favorite color of confetti.
It's hard to threaten me with a brick in your mouth.

. . .



Shatter the mirror on the wall and turn me into beautiful broken pieces.
I am a slave to my own reflection.
Hollywood in a soft syringe push it in and make a star out of me.
Hollywood in a soft syringe and I'll forget who I am.
I wanna be your new big nothing, glowing on a silver screen.
I'd like to thank the academy.
And all my family and friends.
We'll make another masterpiece.
A monologue and a eulogy.
I couldn't have done this without you.
I couldn't have made it this far without you.
I forget who I am sometimes.
I forget my lines.
Hollywood in a soft syringe pust it in and make a star out of me.

. . .



Spike the I.V. with kerosene as insects halo an open wound.
They flutter death threats in morse code and old habits are exposed.
Secret handshake decapitation.
Push the knife back in before embalming fluid seeps.
I'm pulling out the scissors for old times sake.
It's not fun and games until someone loses an eye.

. . .


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