On intimate occasions
You told me I was beautiful.
And I couldn't help but wonder,
Was I beautiful like spring, that cultivated flowers within your soul
Or was I beautiful like those girls on TV, that caught your eye?
Was I beautiful like an object, that satisfied your lustful desires?
You claimed to be the devil's incarnation
and pretended your heart was made of stone.
But in the end you were just a lost soul
with a rejected and fragile heart
And a subliminal desire for warmth and ardour
among the sinful and vile,
that haunted your vanquished soul.
Am I still the angel you're trying to mend?
Or am I the devil you do never want to encounter?
Because let's face it,
We both knew I was just a devil dressed like an angel
The scars on my soul
are much deeper than
the scars on my arm.
— The End —