It was a beautiful violet evening. The sun closing its final curtain, sinking behind a row of cityscape, casting an uninvited silhouette of the skyline in one’s bedroom. And here, in the east, an unheard story of a woman weeping in the dark emerges.
It is easy to love when times are good. No flower has ever cowered from the light of the sun. It is effortless to open yourself to others when nobody has ever given you reason to be close. A heart that has never been broken is a heart unafraid.
Loving when times get rough is another thing. Only the foolish would continuously throw themselves in harm’s way. Those who find themselves loving again, until they have names for their scars and rainy days, those are the ones people call crazy, those are the ones people pity. But they must see something in loving that others don’t, they must feel something that others can’t, and even though outsiders may look in shaking their heads, calling them the poor things, maybe it is they who are the lucky ones.
Stand under this broken roof of mine
It’s a measly protection from rain and sun
There will be leaks and drafty air
And I can’t always shelter you from them
But under this broken roof
You can lay down and count the stars
Until you fall asleep facing heavenward
With the moonlight encasing you
Then you’ll wake the next morning
Opening your eyes to a piece of the sky
So breathtakingly azure and deep
That you would think you’re still dreaming
Take shelter under my broken roof
And you’ll see life a little clearer.
A damaged beautiful girl,
her name the colour of fire,
burns brightly in the dark,
sparks fly wherever she goes
on the road of self-destruction,
she pushes hands away
burn, burn, burn,
she crosses her heart
and hopes to die.