Nevermind a bit of self harm
at all, every now and then for sure.
But not when the wrists are mine;
those bold letters look too good on yer,
What harm does a little self play
would possibly do to us anyway.
But not when the face is mine;
those deep scars look really great on yer',
I gave my love, my heart, the soul of mine,
and all that was nothing but dust for you.
But it's nigh impossible I leave you behind;
this dust will bedew on the grave for you.
Agreed, you've had a brimfull of pain in yer bowl of life,
that you chose the blade to cut yer obsession.
But then came my universe crashing down around me;
the sun of my life was a paperball creation.
A straight face & full sleeves to cover yer scars,
I ain't the razor, the needle wherein yer cries confide.
But then, my baby, don't expect me to understand & care,
to empathize & lie prostate to yer lies.
You have been ever so mischievious, my love,
trading pleasures to seek pain all through.
But if you ever wanted more of it,
I would trade all my pleasures too.
The heights of your notorious deeds
were, dripping bottles full of red blood cells.
But not in the name of mine, please;
may those accusations you rather serve on yourself.
Everytime you used to cut yourself up,
my heart used to cringe and bleed in too.
But not when I found you were fooling around;
may you no longer have yer' doll of woodoo.
You used to send me the gory pictures
of you lying slit in the yer' own blood's pool.
But I no longer feel a fuck anymore
for the sorry-little-cutting-whore that's you!