as she lays there,
in a bed of black roses,
with drops of blood on the pedals,
she cries, the tears stinging her bloody wrists.
oh, how she loves her beautiful razor,
but this time,
she must say goodbye.
goodbye to the few things she has left.
her arms rub against her lovely roses,
and she cuts deeper than ever before.
she'll miss her little razor,
nothing else has been so good to her.
this is how she died,
this is how she took her life,
this was her black rose death. |
