My first love was an arsonist. Black eyes, deep set and avarice. Red lips built like a tomb. You'll never get out of this (some day I'll see to this).
My love, my love, you're the sting of the scorpion. Consider, now, the angels, a little lower than you. And they twist and they turn, and they hold their breath 'til it's blue.
I'm in love with the night. Every breath of this house creaking. I'm familiar with the cold and the windows and the doors. And the sound of my heart beating.