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letra de spider wings & suicide notes - blóðvein

i kissed a clock ’til my tongue went numb
tried to taste the hours that never come
fed my soul to a vending machine
got a receipt for a heart that’s never been clean

burnt my fingers trying to hold the moon
she whispered secrets through a dripping spoon
the stars blinked out like dying eyes
and the sky wrote poems in suicide lines

i built a castle out of nervous ticks
stacked my traumas like crucifix bricks
you were the flood in my desert lungs
but the rain you gave only taught me to run

hung my thoughts on a powerline
watched them sway like a f-cked-up shrine
to the boy i buried in my own spine
the one who smiled before time turned mine

i’m a prayer with a broken spine
a scream in a bottle lost to time
you stitched your name on my weathered chest
then carved it out with no regrets
so paint me gold just to watch me flake
put flowers on me for nostalgia’s sake
but i was never yours to save or keep—
just a metaphor for the secrets you sleep
i wore your promises like counterfeit rings
every kiss you gave had spider wings
they laid their eggs in my open throat
now every word i speak is a suicide note

i bled a sonnet on your cigarette
lit the lines, and let the silence set
the smoke spelled “stay” but you read “leave”
now my lungs are coffins and my breath’s a thief

you danced barefoot on my shadow’s grave
said love was war, then refused to stay
i drew constellations in the blood on my mirror
saw orion cry and disappear

i swallowed stars to feel divine
but constellations don’t fix my spine
i’m a symphony in a rusted can
a requiem lost to a broken hand

i’m a warning label you tore in half
a dream you drowned in a champagne bath
you stitched me whole just to watch me split
then wrote love songs with my severed wit
so pin me up in your haunted shrine
right next to the ghosts that read your mind
but i was never light, i was never clean—
just a metaphor for your worst dream
i tried to sell my soul to the sun
but he said i was too burnt to become
anything holy, anything gold—
just a junkyard moon in a sky gone cold

- blodvein

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