We are porcelain dolls.
Our skin made of paper
And our bones made of glass.
Our heart is merely ash
Which crumbles away from touch.
You and I, darling.
We are two broken people
Who insist on fixing each other
With our broken parts,
Instead of ourselves.
But darling,
There is a problem.
Our pieces don't fit
And we can't fix each other.
So we lie here together
On a mound of tattered skin
And shattered bones.
We will always be broken,
But we'll be broken
Together.
And I'm okay with that.
