Mother, mother, don't you see?
All these scars that decorate me.
Mother, mother, you wouldn't believe.
That you are the cause for over three.
Sister, sister, I've got so much envy,
you're oh so perfect, compared to me.
Brother, brother, you're so dear, you see.
Even though you're insults cut into me.
None of you noticed as it got worse.
None of you noticed my absence.
The numbers grew, I counted them.
It's now to thirty-eight...
It seems like such a high number,
for all those scars that decorate me.
I began to regret, regret.
Told my best friend, who I respect,
She was upset, asked me to stop,
I promised her I would.
Even though I did not.
Regret, Regret.
I'm getting better, don't you see?
Three weeks of being clean.
I took your concealer, to cover all these.
They're so ugly, disgracing me.
I consider giving that knife,
to that dear friend of mine,
though my mind screams no,
wanting the knife to stay close.
I promised myself,
that if it gets worse,
I'll hand the knife to that friend.
I'm getting better, don't you see...?