I know I shouldn’t wait for someone to come and pick up the pieces. I know it should be me. I know I should love my self and pick them up one by one and glue them together.
But is it too much to ask, someone that cares, someone that notices, someone that sees that I’m barely holding by a string.
They don’t see how my foundations are corroded, as they can’t see them rotting, as they can’t see the pieces on the floor they don’t mind.
They only get to see what they want to see, the beautiful front, the smile, the laughs, the promising future that can’t remember her past.
Just bitter memories once I push, I guess I’ll keep that door close as long as I can, maybe someday someone will notice that door and will realize the ceiling hanging over our heads depends on the foundations holding on.
Writings on the Sand 