Depression Understood Forums

I clean my knife, I clean the wound
I clean my knife, I clean the wound
I clean the wound, I clean the wound, I clean the wound
Why don't things ever truly get clean?
People eat with this knife.
Somebody lives in this skin.
After the energy has trickled out, escaped,
All I want is my bed.
But my blood would stain the sheets.
Isn't that what I want though?
A stain to prove that I was here
Even after she returns?
I feel her coming back already.
I should welcome her presence,
But nobody likes to feel replaced.

somehow, i kinda feel some sad and hate emotions circling around on this piece like hatred going to explode anytime.