Can you blame the knife who curved the heart out of existence? Or it's the whispers of a burning skin, melting into ash, floats, fades between the city sounds. I remember the first taste of madness blood, the touch of her white skin, her smell. The look in her eyes when I penetrated her soul into eternity. I bear the marks of no beginning, no end. Dancing in and out of passion and lust. I'm the silence killer. Blame me.