SO the story goes, this one is just the same. The drinks began to flow, he says this love is just a game, to me its the real thing, and i dont want to let you go. So i say to him pour the shot cause i feel fine, yeah i'm just fine. So i drink, tak this shot, its all i need to kill the burn in my heart. Yeah in my heart. for what he doesn't know, is that the pain inside me scares me, drinking by myself constantly i dont want to let you go tonight.
ON MY OWN.
Small, simple, safe price.
Rise the wake and carry me with all of my regrets.
This is not a small cut that scabs, and dries, and flakes, and heals.
And I am not afraid to die.
I'm not afraid to bleed, and fuck, and fight.
I want the pain of payment.
What's left, but a section of pigmy size cuts.
Much like a slew of a thousand unwanted fucks.
Would you be my little cut?
Would you be my thousand fucks?
And make mark leaving space for the guilt to be liquid.
To fill, and spill over, and under my thoughts.
My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter.
I'm cutting trying to picture your black broken heart.
Love is not like anything.
Especially a fucking knife.