someone once told me
i was a butterfly
they said you’re beautiful and you’ll never see it.
maybe i’m meant not to see it
maybe i have no reason here
maybe the reason why i’ll never see i’m “beautiful” is because i won’t miss myself when i die.
i wont care.
who cares if i die?
who cares about the day i’ll lose, the day that i’ll leave my house
the day i’ll return to a new home
the place everyone calls hell
the place where all depressed freaks go
the place where i’ll call home;