Those lines upon her wrist are braille
Each tells a piece of the story
Of heartache, of tragedy
A slow, ache for death — For eternal rest
But she could not press hard enough
For the braille told a tale of hope.
Here’s my heart, do with it what you will, what you must.
It is yours to cherish, hold, or break.
I just want to runaway, go camping — leave
But how do you escape from yourself?
I love your faults,