If I sat down beside you would you be mad?

It seems everything I do dissapoints you.

I don't mean to make you cry, I don't mean to make you sad.

But every litte thing I do, dissapoints you.

My shoulders burn with the cuts my broken razor inflicts on me,

Every day I check your wrists, never accounting for the angry red lines I hide myself.

You are like a caged bird, longing to be free.

I am an antique doll, losing all hope of ever coming off the shelf.

Does the boy know how it is not you but I he should be worried for?

Dutifully he checks your body for angry red lines that mare snow white skin,

Yet it is my body on which scars appear more and more.

I feel sick, like everything I do is an unspeakable sin. 

You pour your problems upon me,

never once stopping to ask of my own.

You toss me aside when I am not needed,

and seat yourself on a golden throne.

The scars burn on my shoulders like lines of raging fire ants,

as I listen to your latest never ending rant.