Tattered and bruised, feeling used.
Let the dust settle, and wonder where I am, where you last left me. Kept me in the dark long enough for me to understand that I don't need the light. The dust has sealed tight upon my skin.

Yet again, I feel the doubt filling in my pigments.
Are you different?
Forgiveness is something I've longed for, what right do I have to strip it from you.
Am I different?
How many times must I forgive you?
Am I truly deserving of that forgiveness as you are? Are we the same?