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Here I sit, amidst the carnage of my bruised and tattered soul.
I suppose you would say that it's my own fault.
Passing around my silver plattered heart,
for you to take your fill and leave me with an
empty, finger-print smeared shell.
Well, let me tell you this; I did not ask for this
hole in my chest, of that I am certain.
I asked for love and a warm embrace.
I showed you what I had to offer,
and you took it.
You took it and trampled it, spat on it, twisted and bloodied it,
then threw it to the floor.
And if that wasn't bad enough, you kicked me while I was down.
Then you left me exposed, broken and obscene.
So here I sit, amongst the remainders of what was once me.
And I see you left my heart,(still on that silver platter)
on the table, near the door.