Verse 1

Verse 1 He blends in the glow of the strip mall haze, Cart wheels whisper on linoleum veins. Eyes scan the feeds—pixels, no ghosts in the frame— Thumb scrolls the hunt, profiles ripe for the claim. She pauses at shelves, fruit bruised in her palm, He mirrors her steps, shadow without qualm. No rush in his pulse, just the itch in his jaw, A collector of breaths, till the quiet ones call. Chorus Bag over the light, seal the world in a shroud, Crinkle and gasp, where the air turns to cloud. Fingers like vices, twist tight on the seam, Watch the bloom in her veins, purple rivers that scream. No blade, no bang—just the plastic's embrace, Fog on the inside, her god's last grace. He drinks the fade, the twitch and the still, One more canvas wrapped, for the thrill of the kill. Verse 2 Behind the counter, where the registers hum, He yanks her like luggage, no cry, just a thrum. Elbow to gut, folds her neat as a fold, The stockroom's his altar, concrete cold as the hold. She claws at the film, nails shredding the sheer, But he kneels like a lover, breath hot on her ear. "Shh, it's just shopping," his murmur, a lie, While her lungs claw for mercy, and her wide eyes ask why. He counts the seconds—thirty, forty, the peak— When the fight turns to flutter, the strong to the weak. Chorus Bag over the light, seal the world in a shroud, Crinkle and gasp, where the air turns to cloud. Fingers like vices, twist tight on the seam, Watch the bloom in her veins, purple rivers that scream. No blade, no bang—just the plastic's embrace, Fog on the inside, her god's last grace. He drinks the fade, the twitch and the still, One more canvas wrapped, for the thrill of the kill. Bridge (Tempo drags heavier, bass like dragging weight. Vocals fracture into layered whispers, overlapping like suffocated pleas.) Blood beads the edges, a frame for the art, He folds it away, tucks the warmth to his heart. Not trophies on shelves, but smears in the mix— Splatter and sigh, his anonymous fix. The cooling-off hums in the rearview's black, Podcasts of phantoms, mapping the track. Next aisle's a promise, the cycle rewinds, Neat little parcels, the devil's designs. (Guitar wails, a single, sustained note like a final exhale.) Outro Bag over the light... (echo: seal the world...) Crinkle and gasp... (echo: air turns to cloud...) One more... (fade to static hum) Canvas... wrapped.