This house held up on walls, 
Proud on the outside, barren within.
Our shame strewn in pearlescent coats, rolled on these halls,
clamped-quiet dinners, spilling and spelling
the litres squeezed from our sin

What is it to be an eraser in a planet of taboo? 
Surgeons are a dime a dirty dozen, 
labcoats selling truth out of desperation, 
junkie peddlers, collecting the walking human remains destined for reclamation,
resold as scraps for dogs, nature's divorcee, 
weekend dad takes his alimony medication.

Overfed and overbred
all blood too thick to breathe,
rations for the war: 
wintry body armor built
for the creeping venom of a day when it all topples.
Huff, puff, blow that glass house down
the kids whisper: "I dont love you anymore"

That's right.
We ve finally built that house, so big, so grand
so vast and incomprehensibly empty of life.
So far inside, we'll be dead for years before anyone dares step foot to find us, a thousand leagues beneath the covers: our coil shed long before the sheets in a honeymoon bed built for one. 
Constructed so you'd never have to touch me again.