break me into the tiniest pieces;
i am born from you,
born for you
and your sick sense of self-appreciation.
who are you to lock the doors,
to shut me out? to cut me off?
to build walls where we had empty space,
where once we could communicate?
and yet i am loath to spill my thoughts
as i drink from this bitter cup;
after all, you and i are
masters in the field of repression -
it's an art form, don't you know?
oh, you can break my broken heart
until there's nothing left
but the dust will remember what you did.
it's getting harder and harder to call you father.
