With these cuts on our hands We let the strings slip through our wet palms We stand in broken circles and watch as they become like masquerades. We mask the days; We're empty hollow shells deflecting pain. With your weathered hands you draw me in, Always pretending it was never our choice to make Hollow tongues We take our words And open lungs And pretend how much it doesn't hurt. With these cuts on our hands We let the strings slip through our wet palms With these stitches we'll try and we'll try to bridge these again. With these thoughts of mine, these cuts on our throat, we chase the pain away.