I'll light your fire,
give you the match,
just stop bleeding.
This place is for dancing but you bleed and you bleed.
Every mop turns red,
every bucket turns crimson.
Don't you see they're tired of cleaning?
Gauze turn red. Brown ones are disposed.
Quit pulling the stitches.
I gave you light.
I give you light.
But, you give me...blood?
This trail always leads back to you. Drop by drop.
Cleaning it up and yet it returns, always.
How can we dance?
How can we dance with the spill?
How can we dance if we keep falling?
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