I am sitting there, on my bed,
Watching a couple of episodes,
About a medieval England going to war.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
With a Swiss pocket knife,
Wait for my self to cut again.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
Asking my self why I still do it
Wondering if it became more of a habit.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
The sheets colored red,
And a red river flowing down my arm.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
Asking my self,
Why I still live.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
All alone, without a tear to cry,
Without a person to share the pains with.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
With the knife covered in red,
A deep cut in my arm,
And a sheet stained in red.