This cut runs deep, beyond the eye,
encased in glass, put on display.
I just wanted something real.
Something I could reach out and touch,
and feel, fingers curving
around the notion.
I give you the world and you give me a gun.
It's moments like these that make me hate us.
We're perfectionists, lying to ourselves and others,
to live uncomfortably in our unfortunate mistakes.
Burn the emotion with a filter, smoke clinging
to the roof of your denial.
You cannot deny reality.
We are all hiding feelings and skeletons,
willingly manipulated by the weather
and sometimes people.
Destiny is a scam.
I'm just selling out because it fits me.
I'm just selling out.