The thorns from the dead roses are in the flesh of my lips.
They let me taste the blood,
the blood that’s black;
I hit my knuckels against the wooden door,
so my wounds are whining,
without you I can’t take it anymore.
I let the wineglasses crash down onto the floor.
With shards entering the flesh of my feet,
the veins inside are screaming in need.
Will I ever pray “Hallelujah” in this