it could have been her nails,
deeply redder than the petals of roses I gave her 
and the devious smirk that captures me and never fails 
as cold as a winter's broad day, I'm sure 

caught within the thread 
of lust that seemed to never end 

In which I found myself lost within the hallows 
of what I found to soon be sorrow 

nevertheless, I gave into her game 
and when she cuts and bleeds, I feel just the same