On the night before my birthday, I just want to look back on the last year and reflect on it.
You sit alone in your room, surrounded by posters of rock-stars
Who sing about real pain that you can relate to, not the dramatic,
Theatrical crap, the hurting is real, their voices scar your heart and
Tear into the numbness, red and bloody, for seconds I'm vaguely
I don't like to talk, so I'll make you feel my pain by hurting me.
I don't like to talk, so I'll haunt you when my body falls into a grave.
Smoking outside the cemetery gates, I walk past, I appreciate the irony.
Marble angels suffocate, second hand smoke and an appetite for suffering.
We all fuck up, but I've fucked myself up more than you could ever imagine,
I'll avoid you 'cause I kind of like you, you think I'm stupid 'cause I don't
Like to talk.
This sharpness, this aliveness, I will always want it, drawing blood is a thrill
You will never know, the zombie mentality lifts for a second, I'm free from this cage
That I made for myself, an animal tied to her own cross of guilt, everything I do to myself
Betrays me as the witch I am.
A silent witch, burning on her stake of slow insanity, hollowed out by hatred,
Let them rot in peace like
Smokers outside of the cemetery gates.