Her life is not in the hands of her own,
She does not dictate it's course,
Nor does she see the untold,
And occasionally this eats at her,
Until she is hollow
Until her heart has holes,
And until her heart is the only one she wants to follow,
And although she occasionally does give into its whispers,
And although the pain lashes at her long after the deed is done,
A little hope reminds her,
That this life is not the only one,
That nothing her heart feels,
Is worth burning for eternity,
And that if it has been written
The moon will return to me.