The time you take to bleed, to pull
out a razor to slit your wrists, it's for
nothing, for no-one.
The tone of your cry makes you push harder,
making more blood spill.
There's a simple chance that maybe I won't
have to death with this pain
That simple chance got bled away, so
no-more time to bleed, to pull out a razor to
slit your wrists, all for nothing, for no-one
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem