It was a cyanide swing,
sticks and stones made to break bones,
and a spilling of guts meant for love.
A sweeter sin than sacrificing
for a love that didn't want to be loved;
hanging her by the neck before an audience.
Tremors from treasonous words
tickled her throat like a razor,
kissing away the pain with fresh agony.
Common sense cut herself,
bruises of a broken heart littering her neck;
she choked it down to be thrown up against the wall.
Failure found fresh purchase as
poison infected infested wounds;
it promised fate worse than death for the soul.
Don't mind the shadows
They're just stitching her shallow cuts
And confining her to the coffin of affection again.
He should be the corpse,
She could be the killer
Or he could be the devil and she could be a sinner.
This is their cyanide swing
a backbreaking chorus of love
so insane that when their done she'll break.