one with the flies.
make your grave
the lap on my thighs...
your open casket coffin
calls for the nip of your
soft rotting flesh
on its skin
if i have to hold you
while fleeting, decaying,
losing yourself alive
i'd rather be mother death
forever still watching over you.
the lap on my thighs...
your open casket coffin
calls for the nip of your
soft rotting flesh
on its skin
if i have to hold you
while fleeting, decaying,
losing yourself alive
i'd rather be mother death
forever still watching over you.