I've filled my bottle with empty promises
drunk off their sweet lies, bitter after kisses
my blood is wine, and it spills with every tremble
when it rolls out of my hand, jagged pieces littering the cold tile
will I finally see a reflection of my soul
in the glass that I break and the fire in my lungs
with no sun I grow crooked,
to fall in love with myself would be ideal
but even she hates me.