The last thing they told me was that they were slipping through the cracks
Every fuck you was a slap that turned a backwards heads right back and right back
Exorcists, they’re all exorcists
Screaming at the demon inside the details, like a child in a bind
And, like a daddy with a switch, the demon keeps screaming right back
The last thing they told us was that they were slipping through the cracks
And nothing high brow could ever be that sacred
On the way to hell they clawed my hands and made me promise
As the cracks widened and the chasm got hungrier
To keep holding on
And they scratched at the bit
Restless for recess
Scratched my eyes and my mouth
Drawing blood to prove I was real
Not a ghost like the ones they crawled out of –
Born of a ghost
Damned to the ground.
My makers keep me chained to heaven.
And their makers are underground.
Circadian rhythm for social pessimism.
Else I’d make that promise and follow those babies down.