I paint them in red, those words that I choose not to voice
And the ones that I write come out in black,
When they hold inside a silver lie.
I mourn the death of things that never came to life
And the ones that did, I tied a noose around their neck,
Carving rightness out of their strife.
I like to hang the blame by the lashes of your eyes,
And once you blink, claim it my win and pocket the stack,
Hiding the tears in my winner’s disguise.
I once was what I really am, but what we are, does it ever suffice?
And since the real has always seemed out of whack,
For safety, we burn the bridges, claiming we got it at a fair price.