The broken are your religion,
You have an incurable obsession,
Is this a cry for validation,
Or simply a means to your own end?
I look at you and I am disgusted,
That reflection is not what I wanted,
This is not who I want to be,
I don't understand it,
Where does this oh so specific love come from?
Why does it take my life from me?
What have I done to let it in?
You worship pain,
In eyes, in hands, in your own mind,
You find beauty in the broken,
Romanticize it in your head,
Reading between the lines,
Giving it heroic punctuation,
Yet,
You've made it all up in your head,
There is no heroism in pain,
Nothing beautiful about it.
I don't understand it,
If only,
I could be what I wanted,
If only,
I were what I dreamed,
If only,
I were dead.
