it's past midnight, and you're wide awake

that numbing hollowness won't give you peace

the thoughts it breeds won't relent.

your eyes are tired, my love;

lined with charcoal, burning like flames.

hair tossed up and out of your face,

but each time you catch your reflection

the strands slip away, falling back before your brow.

you're tired, my love;

tired of this charade.

you want so badly to fall in with the others

so you don't feel this pain, throw down

liquor to burn it all away

but you can't. 

not when they need you

in case something goes wrong.

not when the idea of slipping away

with the rest of them, however enticing,

strikes a fear so real and haunting and true

into the pit of your soul.

so you remain hidden in the shadows,

a phantom of who they need you to be 

and all the things you can never say.

no tears slip from your eyes, my love;

you have shed too many in vain,

mourning a life that can never and 

will never be yours.

your battle paint is on,

your armor prepared,

ready to go to war.

but who, my dear, may I ask

would go to war for you?