You spin each thing I say,
Into smoke and lies,
A spell that I can’t shake,
You are a devil in disguise,
No one else sees the drip-feed,
Of doubt you circulate between my ears,
I can’t help but feel insane,
When that’s how I appear.
I drew a butterfly on my wrist,
In hope that this feeling would no longer persist.
But things got bad and I started to cry
So the butterfly on my wrist, it had to die.
Once again I tried to set myself free
But it seemed my thoughts had stolen the key.
So this butterfly lived a very short life
Killed with fear and a very sharp knife.