The knife I wear just stabs the past.
I've nothing much to do.
She says, "Stop killing all the children
'cos they've done nothing to you."
And I say "I believe that's twice the point
of favorite lies and better smiles;
but they don't know, they just don't know
of what's ahead through silent miles."
She says "Give up, no one's coming.
You can't turn away what you can't regret.
Get over all the swallowed tears."
I say, "That's what I need to get?"
"Don't be scared. I'm here," she says,
"to make things better, I swear."
And I say "How can you do that
when you never have been there?
Years ago you made a change,
a chance to make things better,
but for ten long years I've suffered
in your hands of stormy weather.
Don't tell me that I'm doing wrong,
don't tell me I'm not right.
I can't take lies, and no more hearts
that lose each weary fight."
"I'm sorry," she may have called out
but it's not the words I need.
I only wish it were enough
to take back sorry deeds.
"Look what you've done to me," I cry,
"you've ripped me limb from limb.
Savage children in the streets
that don't know what's within.
I can wish I'd known so long ago
that here's what I'd become."
But the smiling child in photographs
that's squinting through the sun
will never know she's a sorry loss;
won't know that she's a fake
in someone else's politics,
breathing through their mistakes.
And she walks away, I steal a glance
at the sorry photo that I hold.
Could it be that child foresaw this?
Could it be that she had known
that she'd grow up to bury years behind,
just wasting time in solitude,
digging graves to help her sleep,
in a slowly depressing mood.
And at heart I know I couldn't see
the way that things would be for me.
With a last look at the photo,
a tear whispers "sorry."