Treat Me Like A Misconception
Istasha
[Verse]
Let you talk enough to cover slips
I slip right out of walking with
A piece of rubber string upon your belly button
Then you part from all the possible
Apostle feels
And bring a fucker back to feed
On arson dust and gravel meals
Temperature entry
Flood my gills with orphan waters
Tempting eventually to cut these strings that I've been stuck in
See shapes like
Botox
Detox
Stillborn
Birth rock
Talking with a black box