If I sat down beside you would you be mad?
It seems everything I do dissapoints you.
I don't mean to make you cry, I don't mean to make you sad.
But every litte thing I do, dissapoints you.
My shoulders burn with the cuts my broken razor inflicts on me,
Every day I check your wrists, never accounting for the angry red lines I hide myself.
You are like a caged bird, longing to be free.
I am an antique doll, losing all hope of ever coming off the shelf.
Does the boy know how it is not you but I he should be worried for?
Dutifully he checks your body for angry red lines that mare snow white skin,
Yet it is my body on which scars appear more and more.
I feel sick, like everything I do is an unspeakable sin.
You pour your problems upon me,
never once stopping to ask of my own.
You toss me aside when I am not needed,
and seat yourself on a golden throne.
The scars burn on my shoulders like lines of raging fire ants,
as I listen to your latest never ending rant.