Fastforward one year.

There's a place we sleep
when the poison gets too deep in our veins;
and screaming's no relief
for the fire we bring
upon ourselves.

Your society's become a wicked stare for
underlined words and pouty lips;
peace signs next to thoughts that could
twist out the soul of the girl in the train
with the too-porcelain skin
and the over-painted eyes.

We say we catch on fire;
we say we shoot through the sky.
But stars don't gleam with jealousy,
and I don't think the galaxy really likes
to watch that sorta thing.

So where's that middle-ground buried,
between a heroine and a martyr?
Between whores and angel wings?
Where death falls upon
hatred and beauty queens?

Well, I can't tell time when it's speeding up
like the world's got a deadline;
but I can see your heart's scattered across
every coastline you can find,
with a mailbox and a letter that you rewrite
until your scrawl becomes script;
like the actress you are.

And maybe I'm wishing death on myself;
with the way crumpled balls of paper build up
in the trashcan like the eyes and hearts of the boys
you toss away;
but I've got a way of looking past the glint in your eyes
to see a bit of courage to the side.

I want to be the bigger person,
and I'll take it one step at a time.