Promises are meant to be broken,
That's what they always say.
But my face is always soaken,
With the tears I've shed today.

If promises don't last,
Then why am I living?
It means that my entire past,
Wasn't worth the giving.

Living day to day is stressful,
When happiness evades you.
Nothing seems to fill this hole,
That leaves my feelings askew.

Broken promises are meant to be,
Or perhaps never to have been said.
Now after all the pain, I see,
What should've stayed in my head.

If these razors could talk, they'd spin tales of stories so intricate like the inside of a body, funny because that's how it felt every time a thin red line pouring out failure always seemed to feel like. If they could tell you anything I'd hope they'd tell you how hard I fought to keep it hidden and inside a box. Instead of thinking outside that box I would be caged inside it shoved in like sardines, that must be how it felt when they found the tools of new beginnings inside a container that blared the words normal in a big red sign. The color red will never seem normal to me I've seen it on sheets pooling out over my hands. The metal was a sidetrack a bump in the road the only one to feel it was the inside of these clothes and now they have left their mark. If the skin I crawl under could somehow paint you a time of when everything seemed "fine" I hope to god it twists your stomach like the veins inside my wrists curl around the bone woven together like the sewing needle my grandma just can't put down. The doctors glares were as cold as how each and every razorblade kiss was . if these razors could somehow show you that it was not their fault but mine, even the slightest twitch makes it seem impossible to not go back again and yet they are still there they chant the same tune every night and if you'd listen a little closer it'd go something like this "you got a little something on that clean skin you've covered up just enough and its time to pick your weapon and let the ritual of sins begin. Come a litter closer we can show you the world you won't have to feel and it'll be like a drug. Don't think just let the sharp begin to bite and I tell you now you can sleep tonight" the singsong rant is as empty as my box but yet it wounds deeper than I ever could. If these razors could talk, I hope and pray they tell you of every time there words got wedged into my skin like tiny little slivers from a wooden deck I had never sat on. If the sheets I tied over ever open wound showed you the evidence of an unfinished crime scene would you be able to stomach the fact these blades have control. If these razors could talk they'd tell you they aren't finished with me yet.