paint my mask with some blood and some paste
it's not easy not owning a face
I live and I die every night with the moon
if I wash it all off it'll be far too soon
my white skin is cracking
my red lips are drying
my hair is fading to gray
the sun rises, and I fall with the coming day
dab on the powder
brush on the color
I am nothing but faceless in the eyes of the land
I am naught but a body caught in quicksand
renew the mask once more, once again
as I rise from my sun-induced slumber to greet my first Sin
I'm made of chemicals and watercolor
of lies and of culture
of so many different things that in confusion I stumble
fall to the floor and my mask starts to crumble
but beneath it there is no face to be seen
except the face that I guard in my dreams
because while it's not easy not owning a face
it's far worse to have one and still never know your place