My hands remain stained with blood,
The blood of the very one I've loved.
For I've wished ten times worse, than he deserved,
And now I question myself, was it really worth?
No, it was not, I've failed myself,
And now, in curtains of tears I dwell.
And I await the death of my happiness, every single bit,
For what goes up, must come back down and hit.
I am my own enemy, can't fathom why I never learn,
Is death not rewarded, but earned?
When flowers fall over my grave, I'll have my answers,
I stand forgotten as I deserve, but will I ever be remembered?
If only I could reverse the flow of the river,
I'd make it all right, and a million times better.
If only I could be given a chance, to fight for the one I loved,
I'd never have my hands, stained with his blood.