I would sooner put a knife to my wrist
Then ever again have to feel like this
I'd slice on, through and through
Until my veins were quite red not blue
I'd drain every single last drop
In hopes that this feeling will stop
But know nothing hurts more than the truth

I would sooner put a noose round my neck
Then to admit that she's correct
Than to admit I'm nothing more
Than those word that chill me to my core
I'd rather be found blue and cold
Then believe the words I'm being told
No I'd rather be found,
hanging;

feet from the ground.