Joan of Arc Syndrome

You say you think you’re fake, if I touch you
You won’t feel it through your dead skin

Well darling, there’s lightening between us
And it’s not a matter of getting in

You’re holding out for someone
Keeping me out of the gift you could make of sin

You want me to brush the world from your hair
Be done with what we can’t wish into fake

You want me to take you on star rides
And condemn hope to burn at the stake

Hey though, we aren’t dead and I can’t drive
And I’d be a victim, for the hope you knew I’d make


You believe in the fire, so why can’t you believe there’s something to put it out?

Do you want to burn with me, just because fire can dance?

Or because you're alone?



(If you're fake after all, maybe the fire won't be able to touch you)

                                                        -- but I'd rather die