If your weapons could speak, they'd scream to me between dying breaths. Overuse has ravaged them, and your sleeve is so bloody from the stolen hearts you've pinned upon it. [Get a new hobby. Get a new hobby. I'm leaving, and I'm not cleaning up this mess. ] Oh, the damage I've witnessed... the souls that won't remain. Don't cry anymore, your tears have stained my hardwood floor. All that's left inside you is a bottle with a note that reads: "I can never trust. I will never love, and I will never be free."
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If Your Weapons Could Speak
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