When the alright, fine and okay lose it spice. It could never feel right.
It taste rusty and void but my ears are pierced by it.
It was not you.
It was me.
This season of weeping is too hard to serve.
It was not you.
It was me.
This love has nowhere to flow.
The stigma it left had put a nail mark upon my neck.
Shut up!
it was not you.
It's me.
It was not what I deserve.
It is not of my worth.