You didn’t break my heart.
You poked at what was already there.
Don’t flatter yourself.
Because I’m used to having to repair.
I’m dancing with trust.
I’m singing with despair.
I’m locked in a heart shaped box,
But it’s not yours so I don’t care.
I feel I’ve been tied to my bed, staring upward to the skies.
My roof has gone transparent and so have your lies.
The snow has been beautiful, the aftermath just the same.
The ice wants me to fall, and if I do, I have no shame.
The flowers have been trying to appear.
I smile at them in understanding.
This unpredictable weather has my grandmother in fear.
She says the ending is arriving.
Her memories are shattered, her mind rusty and dazed.
She reminds me of a broken jewelry box when the music won’t play.
The ballerina still dances inside, but without the music, you can tell she’s more alone.
I fall witness to the things she surrounds herself with just to fill the hole.
It’s weird, isn’t it? The people that you know?
How they struggle but you never try to see how they hold on to the rope?
I think that applies to us as well.
You keep your distant appearance that you’re going through ‘absolute hell’.
You did this to yourself.
I had no say in what you did, I sincerely tried.
I wish you luck in every charade, mistake, blissful grenade, and created rage.
We both know I don’t believe in spilling lies, so I have no reason to hide.
The fact is that I’m healing.
I’m a movie that keeps getting remade.
While he is a classic, and you’re just an awful late 80’s documentary.
No one finds themselves talking about you anymore, sorry to say.
I’m the flowers in the yard that keep trying to defeat the brutality of nature.
You’re an absolute snowstorm, but your beauty is temporary.
Do you want to know the best thing about a southern snow?
It disappears faster than a flower can decide how much to grow.