Cold blades touching flesh, as crimson hate spills from my veins.
The pain falls away like rain splashing against my soul.
Predictable is the pain that comes out as red hate falling from my wrists.
You say you'll stop, you say you promise, as they all turn and walk away.
They know you are already dead.
And if you die you wont see this place, or him, again.
It will be all over, but isn't that what you want, to end the pain?
