Should’ve Pulled the Trigger When You Had the Chance — Jaded

the Chance
My soul drifts from its capsule,
slipping into pictures of sticks and stones,
fresh off a cleansing—curses still smoldering.
Healing? A lie I tell myself
while writing a script where I’m both the sinner and the priest.
A donor of evil,
smiling like I’ve never bled.
Demonic hands rewrote the birds and the bees,
tore the wings, drowned the hive,
turned purity into appetite.
Now dirty play is all I crave,
filling my cup faster than a reckoning.
Ha—there I go, laughing at the burning of others’ pride and joy.
I was made for this.
I was born in this fire.
And I’m never putting it out.