Hmm, spiritual suicide, see.

I don't know who you're fooling, but you're playing spiritual suicide with your insides,

and somebody need to stop by and tell you you're killing yourself mentally, spiritually, and emotionally.

See, you're calling it pleasure.

But I see the pressure behind your pupils, the shame stitches in your sheets,

the way your reflection don't speak,

unless the lights off and your body been borrowed again. See, sex used to be a sentence, a whole

paragraph of purpose. Now it's a run-on act of avoid. It's a comma when you should have been

pausing a semicolon when the story ain't done now you letting punctuation marks to find

intimacy when you don't even know who wrote the script you let hands hold you they never held

your truth let lips tell you love when all they left was lies laced in lust and now your body

no performance but forgot how to feel you keep calling a connection but it don't plug in it lust and now your body no performance but forgot how to feel you keep calling a connection

but it don't plug in it drains and now your spirit buffering slow walking through numb nights

wondering why your worth feels like loose change baby that ain't no soul tie that's a soul theft

and you've been bleeding out in beds where nobody brings you rest.

See, sex ain't the sin.

The misuse is.

It's sacred when studied powerful when placing palms that can handle its purpose.

But you've been handing out temples to tourists and who can't come to worship.

And your thighs ain't thanking you no more.

Your chest got echoes where heartbeat used to live.

You think the moaned and the miracle,

...