Her bedroom is where we lay our scene,
lined with walls of shame and subtle intricacies.
She lays down,
wrapped in the torment that is her bedsheets.
...and the razor is the one that calls her name
when she's run out of places she can point the blame.
I can't watch you do this to yourself.
This is one sad ending to a story I refuse to tell.
Because you've got enough life inside you to raise the dead,
despite those horrible things that they all said,
and I'm not letting you check out just yet.
It's time to watch all your scars become a thing of the past,
chalked up to overreaction and bitter romance,
and cease the production of your homemade railroad tracks.
...because I'm not giving up on you just yet.
Her heartbeat begins to pick up speed,
as the panic overtakes her fragile body.
It's a race now,
to stop this self-made virus from spreading.
...and now she's destitute of care or worry,
because she lacks the strength she needs to keep on going.
...just keep on going.
I can't watch you do this to yourself.
This is one sad ending to a story I refuse to tell.
Because you've got enough life inside you to raise the dead,
despite those horrible things that they all said,
and I'm not letting you check out just yet.
It's time to watch all your scars become a thing of the past,
chalked up to overreaction and bitter romance,
and cease the production of your homemade railroad tracks.
...because I'm not giving up on you just yet.
I'm not giving up.
Because you've got enough life inside you to raise the dead,
despite those horrible things that they all said,
and I'm not letting you check out just yet.
It's time to watch all your scars become a thing of the past,
chalked up to overreaction and bitter romance,
and cease the production of your homemade railroad tracks.
...because I'm not giving up on you just yet.