I feel alone yet fulfilled,
Looking at your perfect hands against the windowsill.
By this time you should've figured it out;
I would if I could, but I'm dead,
And you're just another life in my head.

Blood fills my palms like a gulf,
As I hold out my hands, offering premature love.
Sometimes you have to leave out,
The dark, dirty things that you secretly desire,
The flesh and bones that belong in the fire.

You can put your perfect fingers across my sinful heart,
But it's been wrong since the start,
And now there's no way out.
Born from me, you'll die for me, die with me.
I'm so sorry you live inside insanity.

I press my hands to the window,
And am not surprised to see nothing but the trees' shadow,
Because you have gotten out.
You have freed yourself from the chains of my dreams,
Unstitched yourself from my makeshift seams.

Nothing good can come of this, deep down I know,
That this machine has caused you to grow,
Until you've taken me out.
This equation is just a phase with lack of expression.
Cure my depression with a dose of your first impression.