I'm A Fake by The Used.
This part:
Small, simple, safe price, rise the wake and carry me with all of my regrets. This is not a small cut that scabs, and dries, and flakes, and heals, and I am not afraid to die. I'm not afraid to bleed, and ****, and fight. I want the pain of payment. What's left, but a section of pigmy-size cuts? Much like a slew of a thousand unwanted ****s. Would you be my little cut? Would you be my thousand ****s? And make mark leaving space for the guilt to be liquid, to fill, and spill over and under my thoughts. My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter: I'm cutting trying to picture your black broken heart. Love is not like anything. Especially a ****ing knife.