I once thought I could fix someone’s brokenness, like a seamstress mending a tattered dress, a soul battered by life’s harshness, and I, with my love, could make it whole again, I confess.
But the pieces were sharp and jagged, and each time I tried to sew them together, I was wounded and ragged, My own heart becoming a broken feather.
Yet I persisted with hope and care, Ignoring the cuts and bruises I had to bear, But as the fragments came together, A darkness began to grow.
In my quest to mend what was shattered, I had created a soul that was tattered, an unrecognizable creature in view. I had made something that was cruel and cold, And the person that I thought I had awoken, was a monster born of my own mold.
Now I stand before the ruins of love, A love that was doomed from the start, the cost of my illusions that tore us both apart.
I mourn the loss of what we had and the love I thought we shared. I mourn the love that was lost, and the pain that came at such a cost. I mourn the loss of the human, whose heart I could not unveil.
And in the end, all that remained was love in shambles, lost and tossed
