Down here underneath the microscope,
it's hard to cope.
don't hide your face in your hands,
'cause if your eyes play tricks,
it's outta my control.

it's gonna be a long cold winter.
the skeletons of trees, my blackwater child

if you don't love me, well, don't shove me
out into the dark
without a flashlight or a spark.
any stitches cling like bitches to my arms
for all my charms.

it's gonna be a crooked little winter
the skeletons of trees, my blackwater child

she's walking home
to the devil's flowers.
the broken bones
of heavy hours.
we stayed out late,
it's a lighthouse trait.
and we'll take our time