I grab the needle,
And I grab some thread,
Beginning to think I am better off dead.
The needle pokes my skin,
And the thread tugs it even more,
The pain is the only thing that is known for sure.
I stitch up my lips together,
And I know am doing myself harm,
As my eyes wonder to the cuts on my arms.
The thread is stained with blood,
As is the cold floor,
But I can't seem to feel the pain anymore.
The time has come,
And I know what to do,
But can I let go of this life, and you?
