When my scars fade away,
What will you think of me?
Will you think I’ve moved on to a better day?
Because the scars you no longer see?
What happens when I can’t fight despair?
Where will I go? What will become of me?
Will I ever be able to make my sadness vanish in the air?
And never again see the blade upon my skin out of hopeless misery.
What happens when you ask the story I’ve told upon my wrist?
Am I expected to tell the truth or make up a story not so sad?
Each scar tells a story, about me, and the happiness I’ve always missed.
When I tell you I was assaulted, lied to and abused. Will you say I don't have it all that bad?
Will you in turn lie to me, and tell me someday things will turn around.
And will I ever see you lied to me, and then pick up the knife.
Some days things are better when I’m crying on the ground.
Holding the knife upon my hip, crying for this life.
The life I’ve always wanted, the life that I once had.
I cry for the life that I want, and the life that I live in now.
I cry for a day where I won’t have to always be sad.
The life that I left along time ago, somehow.
