Awaken feeling, weary and ailing,

The world is cold with scorn.

This bruised skin hangs, loose from my bones,

Crushed under my own weight.

Unhook these claws, out from my back,

Let my wounds weep.

Cold. With. Scorn.

No matter how much I choke,

It sticks in my lungs,

I'll always hold that bitter taste,

On my tongue.

When the fabric of your being begins to fray,

When your moral compass leaves you stranded,

When all but blood is rushing through your veins,

There's only one option you're left with...

Take. The. Strain.

Cold. With. Scorn.