Her porcelain skin is cracked,
smudged with years of clumsy handling.
Her eyes are bright with confusion and pain,
lost in the illusion she dreams for so fervently.
Her heart is wrapped in silver twine,
holding on by a single thread.
Life sometimes seems so meaningless.
Wouldn't it be better if she were finally dead?
And when love keeps whispering 'one more time,'
love keeps yelling 'why cant you get anything right?'
At night the tears pour sweetly out,
but even those are stained with regrets and pain.
Her mind is clouded with hurt and shame,
confused within the fog of unrelenting hypocrisy.
Her tongue is twisted into knots
and nothing she says comes out right.
She wants to be fixed,
to be made right,
but she's stuck with eternal imperfection,
a living, breathing mistake.
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