How do I tell you
That your voice sounds like wish white and sky blue
That your skin smells like brown pages and earl grey
That your touch feels like cherry blossom in spring
That I miss you like a tainted mirror misses reflections

Like a moth to the flame I fell for your love, am I to blame?
Was this what nature intended or have I become that which I least desired?
The cruel, harsh shape of your words come to me like a moth to the flame,
I am that flame, and I am dying.

There is a story of a girl who was sweet in mid-bloom,
She painted colours of rich on a canvas in her room.
But this girl has a secret - a sad little twist,
Her paintbrush a razor, and the canvas her wrist.

Delusional teenagers in their burgundy dreams,
Never noticing those tears at the seams,
Breaking hearts all day long,
At night they cry "is that so wrong?"

Somehow it was my fault,
Somehow I'd forgotten,
What it'd meant.
To be human.