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Bored in a city of excess
The mirror captures his spine
Curved like a sickle in excess
Self pity, his faults become my own
He vomits endlessly into our carpet,
Something in it is shining
My eyes are pools of blood
I don't turn to look at him
He's burnt out matchsticks
He leaves blisters
A map of the lost doesn't have him on it
Scars I dreamt disappear upon walking
We're walking broken soldiers in the city we destroyed
He doesn't believe in ghosts but he looks in the mirror
The map of the lost finds him right here
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