Open up, open up; I want to see what’s inside that thing you call a soul.
What’s a ribcage to a golden butterfly anyway? I’ll float right through the spaces ‘tween your fingers. Your stone cold gaze only made me linger.
What’s the point of being a ghost if I can’t walk through walls to talk to you? To see you strung up like a fool preaching malarkey to the masses? I bet they’d like you better faceless.
A delusional tactic bred out of bad habit; I always choose the saddest culprit.