I was conditioned to believe that 

all conflict is my fault,

fueling the desire to end my own happiness

as I’m always anxiously anticipating the end, 

how could I be content?

But even if I avoid the strike 

there’s still a bloody end 

and I’m blamed for not taking it seriously enough.

And now I don’t trust the 

gentle guiding hand on my back,

constantly waiting for the scars to bleed again. 

But how am I supposed to show 

that we have the thickest skin

if it doesn’t crack?

You’d watch as I’d stitch myself back up again

and you’d call us strong from the sidelines.

Our so called love was a 

manufactured volcano at a science fair,

fake, volatile and short lived.

I need a love like the ocean,

as strong as she is gentle 

and relentlessly reaching for the sand

no matter how hard it may seem to stay.

Lazily communicate with me 

as we’re picking up seashells,

I no longer want to scream in flames.