Who the hell
Do you think you are
And what
Exactly
Do you think gives you
The right to stop me?
Certainly not love.
Not a love,
At least,
That I want any part of,
That would focus so
On an "unhealthy" cure
Rather than the disease,
The poison destroying me inside
Until there's nothing left
But a shell of a girl
That used
To be alive.
Maybe that's what you want
That shell,
That perfect porcelain doll,
To play with, mold,
Control.
It's not what I want.
Who are you to condemn me
For fighting fire with fire,
Poison with poison?
They used to cure you
With just a little taste
Of what could kill you.
That's all I'm doing.
It won't hurt me,
Not as long as I just taste the blade
The pain,
The peace.
It's giving up
That'll kill me
And I need my knives to fight.
Maybe you think you're helping me,
By keeping the knives dull,
But all you're doing
Is throwing me to the wolves,
To my demons,
Weaponless, defenseless,
Just waiting
To be torn apart.
And maybe sometimes I want that
But mostly,
I don't.
So,
I guess the only question is,
Do you?
Is that what you want, daddy?