alone, sitting in the corner,
she doesn't make a sound.
you'd think that you'd be closer,
than the circles in which she's sent you 'round.
nothing ever seems to break her,
though you honestly don't seem to try.
and when the time comes for the glass to shatter,
you'll never see her cry.
for it isn't hurt that she harbors inside,
not even fear or self-loathing.
it's hate, pure and true,
a hate left for the taking.
and though you'll continue running those circles 'round,
it's in her hate that you'll finally drown.
what a poetic way to die...
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