"Funeral Home"
There's a heartbeat in everything, and I'm holding my hands to the wall.
The feeling won't come easy but it's the fire underneath that I want.
And I can feel the flames crawling their way up the sides of my throat.
It's not a drink in a glass, it's a hand on the stove.
It's knowing not to come home.
So when it swallows me, I hope the black cloud billows
like the sound of sirens running through the neighborhood.

So send the ashes of my bedroom to my last known address.
I'll spread the dust of my childhood over the street I've been left with.
I'll leave the urn open to the rain, spill it on the page,
cross out the ink of yesterday .
If there's a fire left in me, pour out my contempt and wash it away.

If that is all it takes to keep me at bay,
I'll smolder until the embers in my eyes fade.
And if the fire shrouds this place in grey,
Remind me not to look away.

There's a match behind my ribcage, desperate to catch.
I'm pulling smoke from my eyelids, but tears are all that's left.
If there's a spark left on my tongue now, I'll feed it until it's passed.
If there's air left in my lungs now, I'll breathe it like my last.