You know how you always liked to joke that having your photo taken steals away a bit of your soul?
The day we fell apart, I went straight back home to take photo after photo of myself with my Polaroid camera
I figured maybe if I tried to erase the bad bits of my soul,
Maybe you could learn to love me again.
If only two times maybe made it a definite thing that would come true.
But as I stared at my soul, now scattered across the floor in hundreds of photos,
All I saw was the face of a girl with the same pained eyes
And I slowly tore up each photo, one by one
Until what remained was the real me
A small, soaked pile of mutilated faces,
And a heart too shattered to care,
About a soul too imperfect to cure.
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