I was a believer, once.

A guiltless, faithful dreamer.

But no one ever notices.

They only see you once you've drowned.

So I am happy to wait.

I will let love write her jaded fairy-tales,

With hollow words and scathing eyes.

Let my blood be ink, and my heart a scroll.

She can write.

But

I

will

not

read.

Maybe the ending had already been written,

Before I'd had a chance to read the cover.

Yet I would've been too sore to admit it.

Too wet with blood and tears to accept it.

But it's not about the ache, anymore.

It's when it stops aching that you know it's hopeless.

And without my head to your heart,

I cannot guess where your feelings lie.

I have been left here for too long.

Alone.

            Restless.

                        Wandering.

I just want to go home.

I want to find the smiling child

That disappeared inside me.