Emily

She's writing a story under her bed
There's too many things killing her inside her head

She's cold on a winter night in a blanket on the porch
Burning from the shock of his flaming torch
It's her pain and her forced smile that gets me
Her blood sits in a timeless trial, and it just gets me
She sits by the mirror crying, a sad tender hand smears her eyes
While her latest crime dies
Hours and pierced fingernails hit the ground
The phone rings but her head weighs on louder than the sound
Red and boneless cheeks are bound and tied
Wet and dripping paint makes for one good compromise
She was never the one to say that's she leaving on a whim
But day after day, we watch her dangle around on a dead limb
Note her odd behavior as he walks into the room
Notice how that familiar daze hits her too soon
I have to say, I miss her terribly every time I look in the mirror
But then I remember the shortness of breath that it took to hear her
She's sneaking around in my head at the worst times
But she only enters when I'm forced to remember
But I'm the only one that has the power to end her
Now that he's gone there's room to talk, room to breathe
Now that he's gone, I can find the real me

She's writing a story beside her bed
Those old little things are clearing her head
She's writing her own story beside her bed
Those old little things shot Emily dead