This could be whispered Or this could be shouted But instead I wear it on my wrist It bears my pain in red And you don’t seem to notice You just dig your nails in Deep inside And for this I must die. [the answer to all of life’s problems is taboo. You could be a white powder or you could be the needle in my skin. Or an instrument that I open myself up with to reveal my insides. You could be a plant rolled in paper. You could be anything. As long as it’s not legal. As long as its frowned upon I will do it.]