Lletres:
Salt The Wound Ares

With death in my hands I'll clean myself of all this filth scratching out the stains of a lying tongue that spoke, as chords from the string I'll pull

Who drew first, when they're gone, still working on perfect nothing to do, except run your mouth, hold that tongue before it's ripped from your throat

This is the end, for forcefully violated reminders of you, condemned to serve you. We have given up, thankful and untrue cheers to what we've been through

Recycled smoke, awkward moments make reflections that destroy our own. Thanks for the best times of my life this is how I express myself. Creating the