Watch me come so far, a whole three years, playing this part
Romanticize my life, my 'art', hobbies, friends, watch the growing number and play pretend
As if the issue ever was the "few at that" I've painted over the mirror so I don't see the fact
My passive ideations: let my arms drain in a dumpster, get a terminal illness, then shove off my loved ones
Paint your lines with blood, you lay bare
On the tile floor, recite your favorite play, as comfort of sorts
Regardless of if the ending that we choose for ourselves is planned, second nature or born by itself
It will never be perfect