His arms were a mess,
But he couldn’t care less
As he got out his old blade again.
He had no other way
To manage hard days,
So his arms paid the price yet again.
He hated the way that his body was wrecked,
But he hated himself and had no self-respect,
So he turned to his razor again.
One day things must change,
But he knew he’d feel strange,
But perhaps strange but happier then?