Burns - [OCD}
I wash my hands every hour
They're chapped and red and sore,
Strapped, creamed, and bandaged
So I can't wash them any more.
Shocked and cut and bruised
But otherwise well,
Him torn in pieces by
That exploding shell.
I held him in my arms
And oh I really tried
To be his friend and comfort
As I held him until he died.
Battered cut and bruised
But I am still alive
How come he died and yet
I managed to survive.
I sit here in despair,
And all I do is weep,
They pump me full of drugs,
Most of the time I'm asleep.
I feel his blood still on me
Nobody here understands
It's burning like an acid
So I need to wash my hands.
