You always want to die,
You have many skull tattoos.
You listen to loud music,
You write poems
Like a deaf woman sings.

All your clothes are black,
"Black as my soul" you say,
You hate yourself so much,
You make it known each day.

You always want to die,
And cry that he's your saint,
But you don't call death with kisses,
It's clear to him, it seems,
How much you want to wait.