We fill ourselves
until our chests bulge
like sick pigeons
and our hearts bellow
through funnels of
sunken stares,
We are pity,
wasted on
cultural complacency and
defunct remains of introspect,
yet we hold tight,
like teary eyed children
guided through fear
and loved
in the very same way.
We are broken,
and we couldn't be
anymore beautiful for it.