Anything to not feel Ill

I'll bleed springs of bitter love for you 

I fear cusps that taste like broken ice cubes 

Tomorrow brings no comfort in my arms 

Yesterday is a plump fruit in my garden

You can scrape the sugar from the ceiling light,

Apply it to your lips in your delight,

Sweep the angel dust off the floor,

Death will forever be your only door.

I'll sell my acids to angels,

And buy my free will,

I'll get drunk of antacids for angels,

And bandage the wounds they cut.