In The Eyes of Sailors We're All Saints

My mind's full of minotaurs
Chasing me down these narrow halls
I am a civil war
I'm an ink blot stain
I'm days away
From where we want to be
Lying on my bed falling asleep
Back at my place, suburban New Jersey
We laid there like an open wound
You commissioned to his wrist
He couldn't handle when you said
"I'm just not feeling this."