I'm a stranger in my own skin,
and I don't even want to stay.
Trade, why don't you trade with me?
Spend a day in these dreary catacombs
I call my beautiful, balmy life.

Ah, when they say
"Don't judge me until you've walked
an entire mile in my shoes,"
I don't think, for heaven's sake,
you could even do that.
That one, insignificant mile,
would be a bleak eternity.

Tell me, darling, you speak of the light,
but the only light I see

is at the end of the tunnel.

And darling, I'm not ready to die,
no, not yet.

Even in my wildest dreams,
I can't escape the night
that shrouds my pitiful existence.

Even in my wildest dreams,
The unending drama still eats
whatever leftovers of my soul
my demons haven't eaten yet.

Now that I think of it,
I really can't say
"I'm a stranger in my own skin,"
because I know all my tricks,
antics, quirks, shortcomings.
I know me all too well,
and I know these catacombs I call a home
and these demons that I call my family;
they whittle me down and leave me out to dry,
but when push comes to shove (and it always does)
they're all I got, all I'll ever have.  

And when the Devil comes to take me away,
and I finally see the "light at the end of the tunnel,"
there will be them, my forsaken family.
Awaiting me, saving me a seat in Hell.