I don't know

if it's insomnia, dread, or fear

that loves to keep me awake on rainy nights

because every wave of pitter and patter

on the foggy windows

every pure drop

seems to pierce a hole in me

how ironic is it

that even the purest of us

are capable of inflicting pain

it doesn't bother me though

despite the gaping wounds

for I'd rather you not be the cause of your own scars

your porcelain clear skin

cannot and shall not bear

the marks of a battle

on nights where the Angels

would wash the world

and scrub the lands

of our sins

only for us to drown in them

on nights like this I am reminded

of the sins I've committed for

a certain 'who' who doesn't know of me

on nights like this

it is not the sins I'm drowning in

that delivers the final blow

it is the thoughts

and the blood that stains my fingers

that simply refuses to budge

no matter how hard I scrub

the stale blood that our corrupt world

is drenched in

and yet we fail to see it

we fail to recognize the chaos

and the frenzy

in the midst of wars

because you never recognize the mess you made until there is nothing left

and what a mess you left me in

and there was nothing left of me to break

for I bear the weight of all your sins