My being was in the middle of their wreckage.
Pried open and picked apart, and now I can barely see my own reflection.
There was never a point to any of this orchestrated mess.
Who’s being who? Why pick apart what’s underneath someone’s ribs?
So as I come to terms that this life is filled with petty misfortune with little to no order, I’ll keep wondering why everyone wants more.
It’s what you do in life that makes it count.
Not who you **** over leaving them with nothing but hate and doubt.