I can see your cuts, there they are all up your arm, I can see your cuts.
Your pain and misery reflects off of your torn, blood-stained skin.
I can see your cuts, though nobody can understand your story,
I can see your life in your razor, and I can see your lies, laying on
Your twisted tounge. Darling, stop cutting, why are you so depressed?
You’re to young. I can see your cuts, and they’re tearing me up.
Your arm is your canvas, and that razor is your pen.
Darling, just know, with every cut you’re cutting deep into my skin.
Your cuts are an untellable story that only I can read.
Darling out that razor down, listen to my plead. (R.P)