Everyone who has ever hurt me has my blood on their hands
But there is one who had the most
And she pushed her hands in her pockets,
Hiding the sight and the metallic smell of what she'd done to me
She shoved the knife in my hands and insisted I did it to myself

It's been two years
And she has yet to wash the blood off
Instead it's dried and there's the faintest hue of it on her hands
And yet she still insists I left myself bleeding