To you and only you, ever the clever little shrewd,
A letter, for the better, you'd hear.
A collection of such spite, all of which came to light
Under panoramic sight, if I might.

It reads, "My dearest wretch,
False witness in the flesh,
Can you imagine such clash
You bestowed upon my mind?"

"Can you hear the melodic theme
Of these eerie hidden screams?
Nor the violent stream
Of broken tones and seams?"

"Could you see the mirrored stare,
Ever severed, ever there,
The hatred in the eyes, so desensitized?
They were your covet, your nobel prize."

"Would you feel the quiver,
The ripple, the shake, the shiver.
It was fear that ruled my mind,
Fear that I'd be left behind."

"When you would say, 'I love you in every which way,'
It'd be as a suicidal sleigh, whisking away at the break of the day.
I sought to assist, you sought a way out,
And while you'd slit your wrist, I'd scream and I'd shout:"

"'STOP! You must cease and desist,
I can take no more of clenching my fists.
Your void and your dove cannot coexist,
So please, for the love of god, make a decision.'"

The memory makes me sick to my stomach
Of how I could ever love it, every bit,
Every second a lie to believe, every day a promise to deceive,
Always were you swearing to stay, always were you wasting away.

So now I'm left to regret what seemed as a century of silhouttes.
And here, a fallen dove stapled to my neck,
Cursing and swearing, building away at a wall that was always there,
Always silent, always rare, always allowing loving care.

Until I knew it wasn't true, until I knew I wanted it too.

And here I stand, cradling a gun,
Taking them down, one by one,
A bullet for all, a bombing run,
So long it's been, yet I've only begun.