My church offers no absolution; he tells me, "worship in the bedroom." I'll refuse to let you make them think I wanted this - we both know it was never my idea. They spiked the holy water and made me bathe in it. (I wish I didn't like the taste). It's a sin-filled life, the one we live. Break laws, burn bridges, beat life into dank submission - and don't you stop until you've got it on it's knees. I had so much to give and I gambled it all on you. Fortune favors the bold, or at least that's what they've told me.
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. Let it all bleed out, as fluid and unapologetic as the whiskey that coats your throat. I didn't know I could hate something so much, with all of my being, and still want it to love me back - desperately, hopelessly, aimlessly. Trust is like a mirror: you can fix it if it's broken, but you'll always see the crack in that god damn reflection.
It's the only thing that brings me to my knees; the only thing that turns this stone cold heart of mine a little lukewarm. It's a bad religion, to worship like a dog at the feet of someone who will never be able to give you what you want; who will never understand you like you want them to. I just wanted something to move me, something to make me sway with the stars at night and hum along with the songs of the earth. I guess it's just not in the cards for me, no matter how many times I try to play the game. Maybe that's the reason why I'm always gone by the morning.