I walk up to the scene of the crime
and there’s a shaking figure with a knife
and a body that will end up in a bag
and there’s a gun in my hand
and there’s blood all over the ground
I say to stop, you’re under arrest
I say to put the blade down and
stand up as slowly as you can

I didn’t write for 3 months and
it was the slowest time of my life
I only write about *** when I’m
not the one that’s having it
which is depressing, I know
now you’re standing there and I’m
yelling at you to leave, to walk
back to wherever you came from
and you’re crying as hard as I’ve
ever seen you cry before and your
reaching your hand out to me but I
absolutely refuse to grab it because
I’m angry that you’re here, you aren’t
supposed to be and you say you’re
drunk as if it makes it any better
but I really just want you to leave
but you want my hand so I give it to
you and end up letting you sleep
in my bed because
I feel guilty that
I don’t feel guilty
I feel guilty that
I don’t feel guilty at all

so I’m standing there with the blade
in my hand, to his neck
and I just kind of let it hangout
push it a little closer, make him sweat
and I move my wrist slightly to break
just the first layer of skin
then down to say, the fifth, not near
close enough to draw any blood
in my defense I didn’t think
anyone was nearby
so I smile
and I take my ******* time
I give him the wink he's wanted
and slowly I shove it in
somebody walks up and is yelling
to drop it, to stand up as slowly as I can
whatever
I give him a big kiss
and I shove it in again