In the attics and crawlspaces of my mind,
there are stowaways and quiet passengers.
They've been there since I was a child,
whispering softly amongst themselves.
I wear this crown of hate.
Feel the blood run down my face.
I know all your pain. Waiting on unforeseeable events.
Puppeteering from beneath my skin.
Suffocating invisible boxes.
Pools of blood up to their knees.
I wear this crown of hate.
Feel the blood run down my face.
I know all your pain.
My crown weighs me to the ground while the medicine keeps me calm,
keeps me calm.
Descendant of sickness,
descendant of hate.
Descendant of sickness,
descendant of hate.
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