It doesn't feel like it's been a year
since you tried to take my life.
I'm still cleaning up your spider webs.
Still washing the bloody knife.
I'll probably never understand
why I was the target of your wrath.
Perhaps we should stop asking "why?"
and instead look up "psychopath".
Who else would spill their own blood
to steal the happiness of another.
If you had left us on that day
the blame would stain me and no other.
You couldn't steal my life the traditional way.
So you painted a story with a twisted tongue.
Lies that still drag me down to darkness.
Such wickedness in the heart of one so young.