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.
