I'm tired of this never-ending game
This game of knife and wrist.
I'll never feel good enough,
Good enough to just be me.

Why am I seeking refuge,
Refuge in my scars,
The scars on my wrists,
And this beautiful blade,
This beautiful blade of mine?

I'm letting my demons take hold,
Take hold of me again,
As I raise this blade to my wrist,
Like a voodoo priest
Raises a corpse from the dead.

Slash, slash, here we go again;
The blood flows,
Flows out of this open wound,
This self-inflicted wound,
Like a crimson river
Cascading down a mountain.

I can't explain it,
I can't explain the high,
The high I get from the sight,
The sight of my own blood.
I suppose it makes me forget,
Forget what I'm going through.

But I know deep down,
Deeper than the scars of my wrist,
I'll do it again.
I'll put this beautiful blade
To my own flesh again;
This beautiful body of mine again,
Hoping I will one day forget,
Forget all about my pain.