I'm bleeding horizons into the carpet with every ideal I can't obtain.
Oxygen catching in my throat, my lungs don't want it anymore.
You left me heaving promises into thin air and holding myself up on a chair with a missing leg.
Who are you to tell me what I don't want?

I'm not scared of you. (I'm terrified.)

I can walk this earth alone and confident. (Will you catch me when I stumble?)

Tripping over my own tearstains is an accident I've grown used to,
but outsiders still think it odd...
Who would've known to be afraid of themselves?