trash.
When I want to be with myself
It's Stockholm Syndrome made absolute
I am my own ruthless killer
Yet I crave that time of being mute
Teeth of the razor tear my skin
Letting tears of blood wash my hands
I thought there'd be pain, I was mistaken
There's only numbness which slowly expands
Lock myself in the bathroom
Turn on hot water, let the noise wrap my head
It's not sadness, I'm just tired
Of never meaning what I just said
But even in those rare, quiet moments
Am I really me or still swallowing pretense?
Maybe the reason I love silence
Is the possible destruction of defense
I want to see what hides in those prisons
Who's being held in every neuron cell
Is there hope for an anmnesty
Or are we all condemned for hell?