break me down the middle and call me some fault line at the base of the earth, expose the core of molten lava that festers inside of me as i ask the question i always seem to long for to be answered; why does everything hurt so much and not at all?
i tired being some sort of soft and delicate person, so gentle you could break me into soil and scatter me amongst the flowers; i would be the thing to let others grow.
i am so sick of being the creator and not the created.
is this was the Most High feels on the most empty of days?
