HAHAHA pretty little dead girl
dance dance dance
on strings invisble to the naked eye.
A tug to grab the knife
was all it really took;
because once your hand was upon it
there was no stopping you from
the massacre that took place that night.
It didn't need to be a gun,
with its bite-sized chunk of death
breaking bones inside your head.
It didn't need to be a noose
that leaves nothing but a horrible
purple mark around your neck.
Nothing was quite like that first great
gush of red,
and once you cracked the dam you
had to take the whole thing down.
Some not so threatening areas to make
the river flow,
enough to paint the walls with,
when the family recorates to
to celebrate your departure.
You foolish little girl,
you could never get it right.
across the road? or the street?
down the..? which is which?
So you slash at every angle
in hopes you get it right.
You'll keep trying for a minute,
and then you'll try all night.
By now the blood has seeped
from every open wound on your
limp and lifeless body.
You lay upon the ground,
eyes blank and as cold as you.
So now you're nothing but a
darling little dead girl
dancing on these strings.
What's life like now that you're
so f*****g high?
Nothing but a pale girl,
almost see through entierly.
Dangling aimlessly above her
grave at night.
Her blood has left, her soul has not,
she's bound to the dark and her
rotting corpse for eternity.
Your skin is marked with open wounds
that will never cease to bleed,
punishment quite fitting for the
sin you have commited.
Open sores weeping and burning,
infection setting in.
If only you could have saved yourself.
Lived to close the wounds.
You wouldn't be here now,
uable to stop reliving your final
moments of life.