I look in the mirror and what do I see
a woman that is fat and ugly.
I take the razor blade and drag it across my wrist
watching it cut through the skin like butter.
The welling blood pours through the cut
to the kleenex I hold underneath.
Soaked with the red crimson life
it looks so appealing.
I bring the wound to my mouth and suck on it,
oh the life giving necture.
Looking back in the mirror I still see her
the woman that is ugly and fat and very alone.
Another cut, another line,
can't stop now.
No more cuts, no more time,
now I go to the tattooist.
The pain of the art on my body
replaces that of the razor blade.
Will I ever heal from the hurts inside?
Will I ever cope? Will I look to the life outside?
Instead of wishing for the razor blade?
Life had come to a screetching halt,
darkness sublime.
Over the years it no longer matters,
death is my time.
I love the feel of the razor blade,
no longer do I fear.
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