Pantomime

I become less entertained as days go by.
Nobody really wonders, nobody asks why.
I’ve become a kind of insect living up among the gods.
Can’t help but reassign the life that feels so odd.
Sometimes, I swear I can smell the perfume
Of the flower you swore would never bloom.

I’m becoming less concerned about fitting in the world.
It shows no pity, not to angels, demons, ghosts, or boys and girls.
I kind of feel like laughing, kind of like as if a joke
Had been told to someone else, I snicker even as they spoke.
And now, the person that I used to be
Is just a fading memory.

Yes, I am alone, but then again I always was.
You were never really there, I think maybe it's because
All you ever do is place yourself high on the shelf.
I think I just found you to make me hurt myself.

One day I saw this scratch running over all I saw.
I guess you put it there just to enhance my own exquisite flaws.
I had this funny feeling: the scratch was there for me to see.
Like it was there to dig a hole and match the scar inside of me.

I just can’t leave it alone.
I keep picking at the wound.
I used to be so big and strong,
Now I’m too far gone to be atoned.

Now I'm somewhere where I am not supposed to be.
There isn’t anything worth saving, just a dead society.
Despite my own best efforts, I am afraid to see
The thing that’s wrong with everything is me.