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 ***** 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?