  smiling,  shedding tears the knife at my wrist the voice I believed in laughing with lies a morbid victim staring at the red fluid that flows through the tube and crying I cannot even sever my own life a morbid victim the white room dyed scarlet,  the wound becoming deeper,  deeper,  deeper bound to these crowds of people there's nothing I can do with this sense of loneliness perhaps tomorrow won't even come a night of my sixteenth year the night is frightening the night is cold so many nights I'm drowning in night perhaps tomorrow won't even come the spring of my sixteenth year the victim has no tongue locked up without light on a morning of my twelth year I,  somewhat vegetarian the kitten,  kind of rare*  mother,  father,  dyed scarlet,  the wound becoming deeper,  deeper,
 deeper bound to these crowds of people there's nothing I can do with this sense of loneliness perhaps tomorrow won't even come a night of my sixteenth year the night is frightening the night is cold so many nights I'm drowning in night perhaps tomorrow won't even come the spring of my sixteenth year doing it quietly my eyes closed mother and father's expressions no matter how much they laugh or how much they cry I will not return my tears dried up this cold night is my farewell slashing my wrists perhaps tomorrow won't even come the spring of my sixteenth year 
