*sadness* *gun/blade mention*
When you feel like crap and you just want to put the beautiful gun to the small waste you call a head.
The gun is no match to the sharp blood stained blade that was on the table that left so many scarres on the wrist and thigh.
No one cares when you need them, your chopped liver it's like no one wants you around. But when it's to late. Whether your dead or whether you cut everyone cares.
Everyone wants to be in your life when it's to late.
