I take away the fragments,
the fragments of my skin.
I know I shouldn't do it.
My past it lies within.

New people keep on staring,
they think it's a disease.
Of course they're right, I know it.
But it's a part of me.

Now standing here and looking,
the fragments of my pain.
There is no way to help me,
all that's left are stains.

It gets then worse, then better.
I know it's pace by heart.
The winter months are killing,
though summer change is smart.

For twelve years now, it's kept me here.
It's kept me wondering why?
Why always me? Why can they see?
But no! I will not cry.

Though tears run down my cheeks now.
Is this a different pain?
Of course my hands are itchy.
Stop you, do not complain.
 
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