If wishes fell like rain, then certainly I am a storm.

If glimpses felt like pain, then my eyes could tear a house into torn.

Whether or not these pieces of furniture in my mind mean anything to me— do they matter to you.

The scars left from these pieces are proof from burdens you brew,

Keeping you in mind is something only a fool would do,

But due to my incompetence for love, I let it coil the fragments in my brain to slur over truth.

Who cares for truth— when love in the body is real.

Who cares for you, when it’s yourself; I mean, wasn’t that sort of the deal?

If wishes fell like rain, then everyone could have a chance to kill.