My body is a canvas, And I paint a tragic tale. You are not my hero, I am trapped in Hell. A razor is my paintbrush, and every artist needs a muse. My only inspiration is Every time I'm used. I swear I know I need help, but I don't want to stop. They tell me it's a bad habit, but I feel like it's not. No, it hasn't killed me yet, so who's to say it will? It leaves me numb and bitter, So I don't need your pills. The blood is but a setback, I think I'll be okay. We both know you can't save me. You never tried to anyway. Oh, it's no big secret, ask me, if you'd like. I'll show you a scar or two, And try to take some pride. Every scar stands for, another day that I survived. Because at least, when I'm bleeding I'm certain I'm alive. Console me with your words, Such pretty, perfect lies. I don't need you next to me, I'm telling you, I'm fine. My razor is my best friend, It know secrets I dare not speak. And you are nothing to me, Just another face on the street. I could replace you in a second, With someone else who wears a mask, Because we all wear them, We cover up our pasts.
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