I don't know whats in the steps that I take
The tears that I shed
The heavy breaths that I am taking

Nor do I know the direction
The pain in my heart
Is taking me

I don't know whats in the words that I hear
The scene that I see
The weight of the load that I feel

The sky's color
When it finds the place
It hopes to find

I don't know
What to feel, what to see,
What to hear and what to say

I don't know how to pronounce
Any of the words
In the language of love

And I don't know how much further
I can walk this path
Before I fall apart

What is this broken thing inside our chest
this thing we once called love
what weary hand did try to stitch
what eye did try see
what was beautiful

  inside of you
   inside of me

what is this thing that feels like death
that once felt like a dream
the stars that danced
inside the colors of your eyes
the blood and lust
that feed and devoured me
that storm and sea
that bridged the emptiness
between you and me

what is it that we lost
that we both once held so dear
did something die inside of me
and then in turn die inside of you
what is that we lost
that broke the love along the way
to dreams forever and now never true

and if the love was broken
then why does this broken thing
inside my chest
still love and dream of you

You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.