When the black moon rises in the sky, my steel lover lays her cutting eyes along my thighs, leaving me in a haze of crimson regret as she says we've built the bridge of love wrong in her eyes. I am not clean. I am not pure. I've left the womb of innocence and have fallen into the cold of life. Cold is all that is left inside my veins, and for once, I am sure: I've given in. Precious pain, you've flooded over me, as my king said for you to do, sweet river of throes. Oh, precious pain, I've broken the glass, so if you may, take her place along my jugular, for she will never come back, never come-