The blade from which she is born.
The love of which has got her torn.
Never knowing what to say.
All she can do is listen and pray.
A sharp blade pressed against her skin.
She feels the itch that creeps within.
She feels weak against the itch,
Thinking of him becomes her switch.
The blood comes trickling down
As she lays there in her blood stained gown.
Feelings that can't be returned.
As her passion for him begins to burn.
She hears his voice from down the hall,
he regrets not answering that call
As he holds her body so lifeless and cold
He will never know the truth be told.
