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I let your knives pierce my throat, and my words were striked off once more. Who am I? Wishing to be someone I am not, and will never be.
My body is no heaven, no lake, no beauty, I hate it. Who am I? Wanting to be you, how faultless you always were, and how flawed and fractured my verses are.
I searched for answers, who am I? A poetess wannabe, a pretender. The wound of your knife is almost sweet, I am addicted; for i am insecure. Who am I? Nobody.
Your words dig deeper in my throat, my phrases lost in the crevices. I am no one against you, I never will be. Who am I really?
