I’m neither an angel nor a saint with a shrine.
But your twisted version of love makes me divine.
Each day, you tear my heart piece by piece,
and expect to see a genuine smile on my face.

You say I’m an art—a masterpiece you claim to save.
Yet, you make me feel like a lone soldier in an endless fight, trying hard to be brave.
A mine buried deep inside my heart,
with your foot pressed on it so tight.

You say you cannot let me go.
Proclaiming the love you fail to show.
I’m aware it matters not if I stay or flee.
For both you and this mine will be the end of me.