As the blood trickles down her arm,
she thinks of the only thing she wants -
stolen before it was there to be wanted.
She let it be taken and now she wishes
it was still there to be wanted - that
He was still there to be wanted.
Scabs are forming over her cuts.
She knows she only does it so he'll see,
pay attention just one more time
like he used to, just for fifteen minutes.
Talk to her, let her talk to him.
No use for fantasies in the clouds
He might as well have cut her wrists himself.
She's drownding as he turns his back,
not even knowing that she's there,
dying on the floor for lack of his touch.
Maybe he'll look over his shoulder.
Then he'd be sorry, but it's too late.
For her he’s already done it.
The cuts have healed but her heart has not.
Still she sees him every day,
a tortured image fading in pain.
The scars are forming.
She turns her back but still
she lives for his touch.
Why bother if thats what he'll do to her?
Maybe someone else will come.
She isn't the only one with scars.
He's daily beaten down,
scarred far worse than she.
When he thinks that
no-one is looking,
His face is full of pain,
and a shadow of guilt
as the memories bear down on him.
His life isn't easy, but
did he do it to himself
or was it done to him?
And so they turn their backs,
one not knowing what he does,
one knowing that it is for the best
what could happen if -