- cifra
Her eyes and words are so icy
Oh, but she burns
Like rum on the fire
Hot and fast and angry
As she can be
I walk my days on a wire
It looks ugly, but it's clean
Oh, momma, don't fuss over me
The way she tells me
I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist
Would be fine
The blood is rare
And sweet as cherry wine
Calls of guilty thrown at me
All while she stains
The sheets of some other
Thrown at me so powerfully
Just like she throws
With the arm of her brother
But I want it, it's a crime
That she's not around most of the time
The way she shows me
I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist
Would be fine
The blood is rare
And sweet as cherry wine
Her fight and fury is fiery
Oh, but she loves
Like sleep to the freezing
Sweet and right and merciful
I'm all but washed
In the tide of her breathing
And it's worth it, it's divine
I have this some of the time
The way she shows me
I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist
Would be fine
The blood is rare
And sweet as cherry wine
