A paper cut, a minor fray,

A reason to bleed, to hurt, to sway,

From the pain of everyday life,

A desperate attempt to take control, to thrive.
A broken glass, a spilled cup of tea,

A justification to cut, to set me free,

From the anguish that I couldn't define,

A misguided attempt to soothe my mind.
But with each cut, a scar would remain,

A constant reminder of the pain,

A symbol of the struggles I couldn't face,

A cry for help, a desperate, silent pace.
One day, I hit rock bottom, it's true,

I realized that I didn't have to hurt anew,

I sought help, I found a guiding light,

Therapists, a friend, a beacon in the night.
With time, with patience, with love and care,

I learned to cope, to heal, to repair,

The wounds that I had inflicted on my skin,

The scars that would remain, a reminder to begin.
I learned to breathe, to meditate, to calm,

To find solace in the present, to let go of the balm,

I discovered that I was stronger than I thought,

That I could face my fears, my doubts, my faults.
The minor inconveniences still came and went,

But I no longer let them dictate my intent,

I chose to rise above, to find a way,

To heal, to grow, to seize a brand new day.
My scars will always be a part of me,

A reminder of the journey I've been through, you see,

But they no longer define me, no longer control,

I am free, I am healed, I am whole.

I kneel before Your altar, head bowed low,
While incense rises like my hidden tears.
The same hands clasped in prayer still long to hold
The one whose love fills me with holy fear.

They read Your word and tell me I'm astray,
That this sweet love corrupts my faithful heart.
But Lord, I've searched my soul both night and day -
How can such tender grace tear me apart?

The hymns still move me like they did before,
When childhood faith was simple, clean, and bright.
Now every verse becomes a closing door,
As I seek mercy in Your fading light.

Did You not form me in my mother's womb?
Did You not weave each fiber of my being?
Then why must love become my spirit's tomb,
While others find Your grace so sweet and freeing?

I love him with the pureness of the dove
That represents Your spirit from above.
Each prayer I whisper holds his gentle name -
A sacred offering wrapped in needless shame.

Still here I stay, between these ancient walls,
Where stained glass shadows dance across my face.
My love for You, for him - it never falls,
Though caught between damnation and Your grace.

Perhaps one day I'll understand Your plan,
Why some must bear this cross of love denied.
Until then, Lord, I'll love You as I can,
And keep this truth like Peter's thrice-told lie.

In porcelain skin, you seek to hide,
the stains of shame, the weight inside,
you call yourself a doll, a lamb so white,
an innocent thing, untouched by night.

But pink-hued dreams, and rosary beads,
can't wash away the secrets you've concealed,
the whispers in the dark, the choices made,
the ghosts that haunt, the paths you've strayed.

You cling to symbols of a bygone age,
a nostalgic longing for a simpler stage,
but innocence, like youth, is lost in time,
and no amount of prayer can rewind the crime.

The colour pink, a fragile, fading hue,
can't cover up the truth, the things you've been through,
the fears that grip, the doubts that creep,
the shadows that haunt, the demons that seep.

You're scared of God, of judgment's might,
of being seen, of being cast into the night,
but rosaries, like talismans, can't keep at bay,
the darkness that lurks, the fears that stray.

Oh, lamb, oh doll, oh innocent thing,
you're not as pure as you would have them sing,
you're complex, messy, multifaceted, and worn,
a tapestry of flaws, of trials, and of scorn.