And if you let your knuckles turn white, 
then let your eyes turn red, and fight. I ate
my heart for breakfast not to feel, and
what right do you have to make me
hungry?

Grab the wheel, and turn.
The mountain ascends, the 
future depends on you. And if the devil stands on
your doorstep, calling you by name—
let him in and give him a drink;
he plays a lonely game. 

And your hands, and your hands
and your spine, and your clandestine
sighs—

And space is so empty (where do you start?)
and you are
so full;
it pulls me apart.