My knuckles are bleeding
On your front door
And these flowers are wilting
In the rain

They were for you
And now they are for no one
They are irrelevant as a mercenaries
In a time of peace

They are smoke
Twisting off the lips of a movie star
Here is a boy with paper skin
Who longs to touch the girl of broken glass

She loves it when he wears
His skin like that
She loves it when he wears
His skin like that

In tatters
In tatters