The blade is drawn across her porcelain skin.
She screams as her weak attempts to heal herself fail again.
One for every imperfection.
They line up like tally marks
Counting off the cruel delusions
That haunt her in the dark.
Their stones broke through her
Like plates crashing on the floor.
Now the red cracks are spreading
As she fails to reach the door.
And in the quiet of the night she shatters.

The end of the gun is pressed against his head.
He weeps As he remembers all of those who fed
Those indecencies that have devoured him.
There is nothing left
He is an empty husk
He took out everything that they didn't like
And placed it at their feet asking is this enough
And It never was
So he kept carving to become something they were pleased with
Something they could actually look at
Until he realized they had taken all of it
So He had to take the chance
That this gun was the way to gain their acceptance
This was what they always wanted
And he would give it to them
The last remaining part of him
And with a loud bang he shatters.

This is our generation
Filling our emptiness
With the realization
Of our weakness
We are makeshift puzzles of perverted desires and empty holes.
Never quite being whole.
Placing idols and obsessions as our foundations.
Eventually it all falls apart,
But out of the dark
Rose a cross.
Bringing hope for healing
And completing
The holes that had been there since the beginning.
Light floods through the cracks
That acted as maps
To our wandering souls.
Once tracing the way
To destruction
Now leading to a rebirthing
Into the life of one made whole.
There is hope in the road less taken.
For in it one finds home.