I often think of the things that I miss,
The little red bracelets that would cover my wrists.
I don't wear them anymore because I’m afraid of who might see
But I still think of those marks, like crimson branches of a tree.

It's been quite a few years since I’ve made them appear,
But I’ve got rules for myself now and I must adhere.
Still, I wonder what it would be like to dig too deep when I shave,
I’m a grown-up now, though, and I need to behave.

When terrible things happen, it's still the first thing I think of,
convincing thoughts in my head, like the soft coos of a dove.
I could drag a blade across my wrist and watch as I form those scarlet beads,
But I cut those thoughts as they come, like they’re withering weeds.

As much as I miss them, those red bracelets are no good.
They might make me happy in the moment, but that feeling is driftwood.
Afterwards, I’ll feel ashamed and I won’t stand to look,
So instead of wearing those red bracelets, I’ll open up a good book.