I hated to know that I was still living.
So I took out my razor. (The gift that kept giving.)
I was happy to see my blood's vertical trail.
It slid down my arm dripping. (Now my life could set sail.)
I had lost all my sorrow and blankly leaned on my wall.
I was not sure if I could feel any feelings at all.
My tears had stopped falling... So I said I was fine.
I was used to the sting always stinging my mind.
But was I happier now if my eyes couldn't cry?
I looked into the wounds with no feeling inside.
I traced over the plasma and closed my eyes through the tension.
If I was feeling alone, should I have wanted attention?
I took the pain in my head that I could not talk about.
I etched it into my skin, so I could let it all out.
I let my feelings, in crimson, clear the thoughts in my head.
I choose to ache over pain reminding me I'm not dead.
God don't listen to sinners unless you hate with persistence.
So there's no need to pretend someone's lending assistance.
I needed pain relief fast, so I pressed that blade to my wrist.
I needed pain relief fast, so I traced scarlet bliss.
I heard the sound of skin tearing as I saw myself open.
I saw the cherry red candy pour out and was hopi'n...
That someday I could look back on the gaping red stain.
With my only regret: "cutting against the grain..."