Some nights I thirst for real blood,
for real knives, for real cries.
And then the flash of steel from real guns
in real life really fills my mind.
Then I really miss
what really did exist when I held your throat so tight.
And I miss the bus as it swerved from us
and almost came crashing to its side.
Sometimes the blood from real cuts
feels real nice when it's really mine.
Ach, weiß nicht.