Bruises

I can't stop thinking about
Cutting myself up.
Visual bruises can be covered with make-up.
But down to the core I'm all bruises.
My little whore gives this excuses.

How can this be rationalized?
Your brain has programmed all of those lies.
What do you tell yourself about our situation?
How can you look at yourself without having some sort of revalation?

How do you live with yourself?
How can you possibly hurt someone like myself?
The saddest part is I'd take you back.
You're turned me into some spineless hypochondriac.

Now I turn to every last emotion.
I'm just so caught up in this I cannot grasp it's complusion.

Alright now I'll be fair.
I'll just grasp you by your hair.
I'll just kick you from time to time.
And then I'll love in the meantime.

It'll be just like before.
I'll be your girl;
You'll be my whore.

I am not an angry child.
I don't run hot nor mild.
But for some reason when it comes to you
I smile at the thought of hitting you.

I smile at the thought of watching you die.
I strive off the image of making you cry.
I thrive off the feeling of having you grieve.
I lick the illuion of watching you bleed.