| Blood letter
|
| On a parchment so clean
|
| But day by day the stainless
|
| Fades from white to gray
|
| Blood letter
|
| Penned with pleading hands
|
| A dialect of neglectedness
|
| I’ll never understand
|
| She’s writing red calligraphy
|
| On the razor’s edge between
|
| Hope and loss and out of ink
|
| Blood letter
|
| Doesn’t wear it on her sleeve
|
| But knows the brush and depth to cut
|
| To make the canvas bleed
|
| Blood letter
|
| Emblazoned on her skin
|
| A gallery of tempt and pain
|
| For which there is no end
|
| She’s writing red calligraphy
|
| On the razor’s edge between
|
| Hope and loss and out of ink
|
| On the razor’s edge between
|
| A badge of honor
|
| Or a wound that’s festering
|
| I want to understand
|
| Why won’t she let me in?
|
| Why won’t she let me in?
|
| A cry for help is now bleeding out
|
| A cry for help is now bleeding out
|
| I should have known that it wasn’t a show
|
| I should have known, I should have known
|
| She’s writing red calligraphy
|
| On the razor’s edge between
|
| Hope and loss and out of ink
|
| On the razor’s edge between
|
| A badge of honor
|
| Or a wound that’s festering
|
| I want to understand
|
| Why won’t she let me in?
|
| A cry for help is now bleeding out
|
| A cry for help is now bleeding out |