If I compiled   all my crimes and my lies   into amnesty,   would you come back to me?      The small on my lips   is a sign   that I don't hear you leaving me,   that I don't hear my own soul scream.      I'll read your lips,   watch your scarf play at your hips,   and I know it's true,   but I don't hear and call to you:      "Don't blame yourself,   don't change yourself,   just want to be over you see and feel numb. (?)   Don't hate yourself."