I'd kill my son, to hand you over the truth,
holding tight to the one thing it could never buy.
While you were mourning rain,
something wonderful happened,
I was living someone else's day.

They mocked me even after their bodies rotted in the attic,
and I waited though nothing was left to believe.
So all the words that should have been, are but a pitiful void.

Shoot me in the back,
it's the only way
touching yourself
seems fair enough.

Feeling the weight of your own silence?
It's cutting our knots for good.
A failed attempt at existing.





Lydia's Sleep Setubal, Portugal

Lydia's Sleep is down the Valley of Depth. Emerging with each wave.

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