Call it cynical, call it whatever you like
But don't you dare revel in those 'self-help' lies
You can plaster that smile
On your young tired face
Project the illusion of confidence, happiness even.

But the darkness is in your lashes
And that acid, in the soil of your mind
So let yourself ******* feel it
Because the flowers are being killed anyway
Even if you smile.

There's broken glass on the floor
Each slither; it's you
Extend your hand, pick some up
Curl your hand into a fist
And crush.

Your skin is punctured with glass slashes
Ripe blood trickles through
You feel alive and as though you've died
All in one crimson drop
But those glass slashes, they're true
Unlike that self-help smile you think has people fooled.