Everything inside is screaming,
With open wounds that ooze,
Maggots feeding and teeming,
Her pallor gray and bruised.

This is how she feels inside,
With no relief in sight.
So she smiles wide, she smiles bright,
And screams into the night.

The butterflies have long since died,
Make-up containers cracked and dried.
You are still my World, my Hope, my Love.
I will always be here, always waiting,
But I, my Love, I will never be enough.

I flew much too high under the harsh sun, ignorant of the warnings of my inevitable demise.
We only achieve what we allow ourselves to,
and we are only who we are because of what we make ourselves.