How many hands, can we ever really trust, to touch us where,

deep inside, we're always bare, those places that, the eyes never see,

deep down, where we often become, our own worst enemy.

How many can we ever trust, how do we trust, to let them in,

when everytime, you bruise the delicate, and you shatter the fragile,

everytime, they prove themselves, so much less, than they could, be.

Every hand that leaves its mark, every touch, weals left deep and within,

always another scar, that burns long past, your worth, always,

right where it belongs, to remind, beauty in those we see, is often,

an elaborate dream, which we choose to believe, so much prettier,

than the reality, salty like the tears, no one has the worth to see, just as real,

as the screams, inside my head, bubbles popping, popping, gone.

We're all so broken, so very fucked, we try so hard to overcome,

all the uglynesses, kept so near, so close, locked as far, as far,

from ourselves, that inside us can be.

How many, can we ever really trust, to see inside, see the things,

even we're afraid to see, how can we trust, anyone to ever be,

someone worth sharing, our broken treasures, and our shattered dreams,

ever worthy of knowing, all the little things, we clutched in our shaking hands,

when life broke everything, for which, it had the means.

So many, many little pieces, form the fabric, the puzzle so elaborate,

which compromises us at every turn, puzzle pieces of forgotten sanity,

bartered for the price, of all your smiles, smiles thought, freely given,

never bothering to look, for the deeper meaning, satisfied with only,

the seeming.

Delusions bought and paid for, with an ocean's worth, of bloody,

tear stained cheeks, eyes no longer able, to wet themselves for you all,

salt gives way, to heart's blood, a soul hanging, swinging,

along the bridge, over the bridge, to ruin, letting go, a slipping finger,

one at a time, wondering, if the fall, can really be that bad,

compared to the emptiness, that shrouds the mind,

almost like a friend, that is always there, in the end.

Can it be bad, really that bad, afterall?

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