I strayed from the kitchen that's where we kept the knives
that could slice the tense air from clenched fists
I wasn't partial to pain but I fled home everyday,
staring at the veins through the skin on my wrist
And in the morning when my throat burned like cuts and scrapes
and salty dry eyes refused to wake
the only warmth were cold hands of a mother
she'd say "it'll be ok"
I'd be no more than A Dead Cliché,
A Dead Cliché
A Dead Cliché
with nothing to say
farewell notes are so passé
So shoot me in a gallery, we'll call it art
you can critique the blood stain on the floor
why let my death go to waste, if I'm dying anyway
I might as well have something to die for
Cause I