I noticed that, when she showed you her scars, still bleeding, still raw, you saw your own. I noticed that, when she told you she died inside- You asked her what it was like to live. I noticed that, when you sleep, you no longer dream. That when you hold hands, it is to continue to stand, not to remember the warmth. I noticed that, you fear your father and you hate your son. I noticed that, your tears have dried up and you sing to remember that your heart still beats. I noticed that, I am covered in a blanket and that blanket was stolen. That when we speak of darkness and truth, we speak to dead eyes and empty faces. I noticed that, suffering is multicoloured and that I am sleeping on a bed of broken wings.