A slow violence of words
This injurious game you play
Spiteful, syllable strings arranged
And tied into weapons, weapons (weapons)
The incisions of your tongue
The slashing, the deliberate cuts
Run deep and wide
Whatever carved the pedestal you occupy
Was set on this resulting divide
I see through your vain pretense
The veil of you has been parted
Pure and fair, you fly on wings up high
Pharisaical, you are faultless
Of all the wounds I expected
Heartbreak, bereavement and despair
I never saw these coming
The gashes of your betrayal