There is something scary living inside me,
Of me, he asks of someone I cannot be.
A replica of his soul,
He wants to cast me in his mold.
Forced to reborn,
To grow devilish horns!
Forced to revamp,
To grow thirsty fangs!
Alas, escape I cannot,
Or put up a fight of any sort.
Through me, he shall spawn,
And through him, I see a new dawn.
Nothing I will do or say,
But to be who he wants me to play.
And oh, have I told thee,
That his name was The Ideal Me?