There are variations in the way we enter this world, and how we come to understand what love is.
When you're born from tragedy, tragedy is the only thing you'll learn to love.

Does he really love you if he doesn't make you cry or turn away when you want to hold him?
Does she really love you if she doesn't leave in the middle of the night and never return in the morning?
Do they really love you if they don't force you to realize that you are all alone in this world, belonging to no one, and on your last few breaths?

Tragedy has a face, and it's a beautiful one.
It's worth falling in love with - it's a face that you'll see behind your eyelids regardless if the moon or the sun is outside your window.

It's a face that has brown eyes that can't seem to stop crying -
eyes that can't believe what they're witnessing.
It's a face with a parted mouth that can't seem to speak -
but if it could, its voice would resemble something close to broken glass.

Tragedy has a face that looks like mine -
and hasn't it been said that I'm supposed to love myself, to fall in love with who I am in order to heal?

I'll hold my face in my hands and try to stop crying,
to close my mouth and not allow anymore broken pleas to escape.
Tragedy is me and she's the only thing that will ever love me in return.