She was crazy (she was beautiful),
I guess she had to be.
I was angry (you were blind),
because I could not see.
I saw only what her cigarettes had done to her skin.
I should have known the outside world
would reveal what was within.
She was burning herself,
and her hair was filled with ashes.
She was burning herself,
and her life becomes a flame.
She was burning herself,
and the flame became her pa**ion.
She was burning herself,
and her pa**ion,
her pa**ion was her pain.
She was trusting (you could have saved her too),
all hope had pa**ed for her.
I was lusting (and she gave to you),
that's all I asked for her.
The marks upon her body
and the marks upon her mind.
I could have erased them
if I'd only taken the time.
I never saw her do it,
I only saw the scars.
I never could imagine
what would make her go that far.
I wondered,
was she driven by desperate need to feel,
to find out she was living,
to discover life was real.
Or was it that the pain
slicing through her like a knife
was easier to take
than the emptiness of life?
Had a strange sense of drama
caught her in a role,
or was she trying to cauterize
the chancres on her sole?
I don't know
I don't know
I don't know...