You laugh like a little girl,
and inside you think like a martyr.

Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor.

Like doves we cry for justice, and there is none.

In the quiet of the night, my mind wanders back to you once again.

She's the devil's favorite poem.

Or was her destiny from the start to be but just one moment near your heart?

Sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man is the most guilty.

She's the type of flower that can still grow after a forest fire.

I didn't love her eyes for their color, I loved them because they saw me.

Since you left, home is dark.
No lights were broken, but hearts were.

And we don't repent from our dreams no matter how many times they're broken.

That which inspires us to our greatest good is also the cause of our greatest evil.

She never felt like she belonged anywhere, except for when she was laying on her bed, pretending to be somewhere else.

Her blood colored darkness.

Her throat is raw from screaming to a god who isn't listening.

I praised black the minute I saw the darkest part of you.

At times, my life seems to be nothing but a series of remorse, of wrong choices, of irreversible mistakes.

And so that was what love led to.
To wound and be wounded.

Now I have to remember you for longer than I have known you.

To put on your best outfit and feel like you're dressing a wound.

In her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy.