The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.

I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.

I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.

Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.

The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.

Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are

My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.