Stab me, what’s the purpose of the knife if you won’t gut?
As deep as it gets I will drift upon,
The cuts are great and the edges are sleek.
The way you pull it out and leave, paints me gray,
Don’t you hear the places where echoes are forever left?
Floor soaked it all and now reflects,
Just a half of my face that is left,
To serve as a reminder of what it might be,
That I somehow misspelled.