with my wrist slit and my lip bleeding; chapped,
The winter slithering and nipping my skin; kissing my hips.
I’ll write a song with my tears and blood and I’ll let the birds sing it in the morning; well they make the most innocent love,
The crickets will hum it at night and the wind mixed with the autumn leaves will carry it to you.
The night will whisper it in your ear,
The tree will dip it in your fears,
Even in your sleep, you’ll hear.
You’ll hear my sorrow and my wrath at tomorrow,
My scars on my arm will show you that I have a voice that needs to be heard,
My beautiful pain filled tone will be learned.
The birds will sing,
the crickets will hum,
The wind will carry,
The trees will let it be heard by even the deafest ears,
Your dreams will know my pain and the fact that I have nothing to lose and probabilities to gain.