The pounding of your fist at the door of my chest
Can no longer withstand what you tell it to
No matter the number of times you use your sultry words to beckon it to life
and force it to mend itself back together.
It will never leave the shallow end of the pools of sorrows it drowns in,
Drowning in what seems to be your only form of affection
It has been taught that the moss growing beneath the surface was there for a reason
Yet looking back all it has taught me, is how damaged i am beyond belief
No carpenter will choose this moldy heart over a sturdy oak
Tell me, was it worth the number of broken words and moments?
Was it all to prove that you never wanted anything more than a piece of brush to float in the sea of pain until it's completely putrefied?