As i take the razor blade and run it across my freshly cut wrists.
My eyes, Blacken from crying.
Looking at myself and wishing i was dead,
But never had the guts to actually do it.
I'm like a butterfly flapping it's wings,
Affecting almost everything in its path.
Everything around me always dies and goes away.
And I'm left here alone.
As i feel the warmth of my blood from my open wrists,
I'll just be fine pretending I'm not.
Cause I'm a wishful thinker,
With the worst intentions.
