With lovers made of suicide and angst
Mother never gave me love
And father just worked himself to death
Blood has a way of staying
Like a hand tends to leave it’s mark on the soul
Well you know me
I’ll be drunkenly holding you accountable for my scars and heartache
Mary was a willing whore
To birth a god
Without a man to fill her.
Well is it any wonder why a woman
Feels the forsakenness of God
When He never asked her first
And she had to endure the wrath of judgment and skepticism.
