I’d prefer to starve

than to devour all the lies.

I’d prefer to burn

than be left to your cold.

I’d prefer to die

than to believe that disguise.

Pretty people,

broken hearts.

Pretty words,

everlasting scars.

I’d rather starve

than be your friend.

You’ll call me dramatic,

but wait until this ends.

I used to have a voice,

and although my words were bold,

they were better company

than the chill in your heart.

I’d rather burn than be left to your cold.

There’s a mask on your face,

I fell for it so pathetically.

I believed every word and smile,

every joke— but now apathetically,

I can tell you,

I’d rather die than fall for your disguise.

Your heart was never broken;

it never got the chance to exist.

You’re like the Grinch,

with nothing to assist.

You’ve always fed me

the lies I wanted to hear.

You’ve made me a meal

that is supposedly ideal,

but poison hides

in the prettiest things.

This is why

I bite the hand that feeds me,

so that maybe it’ll let me starve.