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The Number Twelve Looks Like You Put On Your Rosey Red Glasses

i told her to wait outside, pick wild flowers. i went upstairs and stripped all of my clothes off. i knew if i did not i would get her blood on them.

from these bloody hills comes unmixed oil and water concentrated by abstract particles distilled through cross pollination

the sacrifice dispelled. crippling. faulty. holyland. i am your martyr, your stigmata the tears turn to blood beneath my eyes. my body listens... as you

flew overhead. roses drip black and children weep in awe at thier mother's side and tissues break. shows your ample wit. to get back at your bastards