I can’t believe this,
I thought I’d never see this place again,
But I’m back here again,
Scratching at the walls,
Punching the floor,
Screaming my demon’s name.
This room has become too familiar,
I know its dark corners too well,
They’re imprinted in my head,
I know the cracks in the ceiling too well,
They’re drawn on my skin,
If the human body is a temple,
And this place looks just like me,
Does that make this place my temple?
Maybe that’s why I keep returning here,
I keep paying my respects,
With dollar bills made of my blood,
And flowers made of my tears.
Which means the exit,
Must be made of something else entirely,
In order to escape for good,
I have to find a new place of worship,
Is it yours?