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The silence isn’t empty, it’s screaming the truth,

Echoing through the wreckage of my wasted youth.

Two people in a room, both holding the key,

But you’re still pretending you’re locked away from me.

You hold your gaze, steady and cold,

Reciting a story that’s already grown old.

It’s an insult to my sight, a slap to my ghost,

To watch you defend what we both know the most.

You’re painting a window on a solid brick wall,

Waiting for me to believe in the fall.

How do you breathe in this air so thin?

Where do your masks end and the person begin?

We’re standing in the light of a truth so bright,

Yet you’re choosing the shadow, you’re choosing the night.

How do you look me dead in the eye

And offer a hand filled with nothing but lie?