She hangs her head low,
sick of her everyday show.
Holding tight and letting looose
what is what and whose are whose.

She runs so far away from life
And her only resource is her knife.
While running the blade across her skin,
she prays to god its deep enough in.
to kill, to take, to help her let go.

The burn begins, the flow is coming.
It inches up from bewteen the cracks of her crust.
She dares to look at the knife. So full of blood and rust.
Theres no one in this world she could ever try to trust.

The scarlet red pushes its way out of the skin.
She knows this painful process is a full fledged sin.
Like a splinter, her words thrust her way out of her head.
Throwing themselves onto her bloodstained letter.

She says goodbye one last time.
She could fall in love with the veiw of the world at sunset,
but she leaves the veiw to the rats,
and hurry's back.

Her world fades, her eyes close
for once shes happy.
For there are no more every day shows,
in store for her.