these walls

i could tear open my flesh a hundred (or) more
times but you still wouldn't (/couldn't) see (or care)
because you never (truly) saw when i first showed
you the scars - although it wasn't as bad then as it
is now. screaming your name could never make a
difference either because these walls you put up
let in no sound (especially the sound of my voice).

if i never mattered to you then let me cut myself
open right in front of your eyes and let my blood
spill onto your hands and douse your clothes.
would you be so kind as to hand over a bullet
and watch as i carve your name into it? i'll give
you the gun so you can say that you're the one
who (finally) ended this (and then you could truly
forget about me because i wouldn't be there to
make a difference & no one remembers the dead).