She’s laying there like a corpse
Inch by inch her soul is torn.
Trying to breathe, she is, but
All she could let in was this
Rotten smell of her dead faith.
This weight she’s handling is too afflictive.
But who cares? Isn’t she supposed to calm the hound?
Yeah, with affection sometimes they hold
The girl that’s far from whole.
Warmth. . . She doesn’t crave for anymore
For she’s to live in the dungeon that’s cold.
She’s not to be loved
She’s to be served to the fiend.
They do pretend at times though
That she’s everything they have dreamt of.
Being optimistic is a curse sometimes
For it makes her want to keep going.
It makes her want to die and live.
It let her wish for death and sleep.
She has to die every day with the hope
That she’ll find a life,
Life, that’s lost. . .