I can't help it, if they ask of me,
I give. I give too much, it flows
from deep within me, true as the
old, forgotten scars in the corners
of your body, light and unforgiving.
I seem unafraid and unfazed, but
the sweat on my palms gives me away.
If only my chest could open up and
swallow the blinding light around them,
so they could see who they truly are,
so I could see a different path, somewhere
leading me far away from who I should be,
from who I'll never be. This forgiveness is
tasteless, and its reassurance weightless.
The walls in my room used to be tall,
they kissed the stars on my ceiling and
sweetly conveyed the freedom of dreaming.
Now, those walls have shrunk down and made
me fall, its rotten painting has left me
breathless, so I can't rest, so I can never
dream again. How do the living fall asleep?
My lips can taste the bitterness of the
past, built around goals, tears and blood,
and the guilt that consumes me says it all,
I have failed that hopeful child, I have broken
her powerful mind, and I have betrayed her
infinite soul. Now I walk away from her knowing
that I'm nothing but the monster in her nightmares.
Cynicism is all I have left,
bitterness and regret have set
deep in my bones. Do not worry,
I have no care either, I've gotten
used to it, it burns a new type
of flesh, it tastes sweet against
my hateful tongue.