I imagine that your fingertips will have burnt off
By the time I try to make this better
What is the point in trying if they will never
Have the chance to singe you again but this time
With more passion than unadulterated fear?
I don't know what they feel like from hands
Other than my own
But now you have that under your belt
I'd rather be burned by the acid they let off
Than produce it of my own accord.
You exclaimed vulgarity when the acid
Made contact with your fingertips.
To whom were you fitfully angry?
Yourself who only fell in love with a girl
They constantly lingered upon?
You who stumbled upon it in
Some kind of lust and affection?
Or perhaps me?
The one who sits in bedrooms and never cries
When she produces her own form of acid.
Me, who laughs at the pain.
Who likes the color the water turns.
Who likes fresh blades.
Me, who let your fingertips touch me!
How can you be angry at yourself when
This is who I am?!

I never intended to hurt you
Acid has been pouring for a year
You're fairly new to the hatred I live
I cannot apologize enough for the idea
That I want to let more acid fall
Because I adore your lips
And I need them far too much
Please forgive me and your burnt hands
They do not mean so much harm to me
Jealousy may take them over at times.
Look at me, speaking as if I have
No control over what they do.
I do all of this to myself.

Forgive me, acid, for I want to repay
Her fingertips for your damage and
What I have done to my poor girl.
I want you to be done and finished
Gone and disposed of and never ag-

I find it funny that you think you can defeat me

I'm sorry, girlie.
My one more time will never be enough.