The world is a sick place
I say as my fingers begin to trace
The scars are unfortunately showing
And the blood has stopped flowing

I try to cover them,
Try to hide from where my problems stem
But its only a matter of time till someone sees,
Will they treat it like a disease?

Who knows, who cares
Maybe I'll "accidentally" trip down the stairs
Will anyone actually give a ****?
Will they see I've 'taken a hit?'

I'm done caring I tell my reflection in the mirror
As the knife traces over my skin but I don't see myself any clearer
But just like clockwork I feel the slice
And I still wonder if hiding my pain will suffice.