Sick of crying, tired of trying.
Yes I'm smiling, but inside I'm dying.
I'd paint you a pretty picture,
But this one has a twist.
The paintbrush is a razor blade, the
Canvas is my wrist.
The roses have wilted, the
Violets are dead.
My self love is empty,
My skin is stained red.
Tired but afraid to sleep,
For fear I'll never wake up.
Would that really be the worst thing?
To leave this world's lack of love?
I've worn this...