I am a museum of broken memories,
and few may walk my halls,
I sing in broken melodies,
and paint the lyrics on the walls.
There’s rooms I dare not open,
and things I dare not say,
because if the words were spoken,
I’d scare you all away.
So instead I hide the paintings,
that tell my broken tale,
and replace them with trimmings,
that conceal all the detail.
If you knew the things I’ve done,
and saw a glimpse of what I’ve seen,
in an instant you’d be gone,
and we’d be what could’ve been.
So I water my dead roses,
and wipe my weary tears,
display the mended canvas,
and hope you don’t disappear.