The sweeter the fruit the much darker the secrets you get whispered to,
just to realize you weren't the first one to get chosen,
It was just your innocents that make them get brutality all over you.
Bath me with your malicious hands clean.
The bruises you wear from the metamorphosis, that has long been completed,
reminisce that you turned from a winged Insect into an exhibited object,
that penetrating stare stings like the needle from a bee and lets you feel like nothing but liquid smush.
But you are more than everyone suspects.
Like waving a butterfly's delicate wings,
You have the power to soar,
High above the turmoil and pain,
Got the biggest hands that can warm me,
However your heart must be a fragile shining thing, Crystal clear monocline Cryolite, throbbing rubbing like the vocal cords of your ancestors, humming weep or sing, like playing instruments feathery with your nerve system.
Fierce derealization arrives in the mind off yours after paralysed moments nurtured in resilience small things,
The truth you hardly mattered for was blown away in little shreds by the wind,
They let you believe you would be the prophecy, a shell formed out off clay tone, ready to fill with yourself as a sacrifice,
But it was for the firstborn, who was made out off the goddess rib bone.
