I Have The Gun

Soft white petals, supposedly from a rose,
Are picked ungraciously from its thorny stem.
The thorns, they are as sharp as their name,
This girl, foolish girl, pricks herself, for it's her bane.
But still she continues, still she cries.

"He loves me. He loves me, not."

How childish is this game?
But no one knows, nobody cares,
That there's a gun right in her pocket,
And if the last petal,
From that beautiful rose, is showing her no mettle.

That lack of love,
Supposed lack,
Could send her right back,
To the hospital that she just came from.

This time she may not have luck,
This time her body may yet be lying on a table.
But who knows, maybe her hope, is enough to make Fate decide
To add an extra petal, to the worn petticoat of this poor flower.
Maybe she'll save me,
For I am this girl.
I have the gun.