You told me you were made of glass,
and that your heart was far to thin.
But I did not believe you,
until I felt you cut my skin.

Now the scars on my heart
run to deep to forget.
I still have the old roses
from the first time that we met.

And I don't know why I told you
that I’m good at letting go.
Because as I look at these dead flowers,
I pray for them to grow.