bleed like I do

blood on your hands,
you’ve all got blood on your hands,
make me bleed and leave me ‘lone
let me dry in a pool of my own
blood.
on. 
your.
hands.

see My scars, pretend you care
I know, can see you stare, your eyes do pierce,
you fucking prick;
could care less about what you think,
but do I not or do I care?
all this worry seems unfair
Do I care or do I not?
doesn’t matter anyway, because
all this worry leads to my hands full of
blood.
on.
your.
hands.
                

When I wrote this when I was younger, I felt quite proud of it; it flowed really nicely when I wrote it, it took like 3 minutes to write because the idea was just there; it came as I wrote. I loved the way it intertwines the certainty of putting the blame on others (merited or not) with the uncertainty I had in my security towards them. It definetly gives off the vibe of a young, corny and confused teenager, though.