To think of my task is chilling.
To know I was carefully building the mask
I was wearing for two years,
swearing I'd tear it off.
I've sat in the dark explaining to myself
that I'm straining too hard for feelings
I ought to find easily.
Called myself Jezebel. I don't believe.
Before I say that the vows we made
weigh like a stone in my heart.
Family is family,
don't let this tear us apart.
You lie there, an innocent baby.
I feel like the thief
who is raiding your home,
entering and breaking
and taking in every room.
I know your feelings are tender
and that inside you the embers still glow.
But I'm a shadow,
I'm only a bed of blackened coal.
Call myself Jezebel for wanting to leave.
I'm not saying I'm replacing love
for some other word to describe the sacred tie
that bound me to you.
I'm just saying we've mistaken one
for thousands of words.
And for that mistake,
I've caused you such pain
that I damn that word.
I've no more ways to hide
that I'm a desolate and empty,
hollow place inside.
I'm not saying I'm replacing love
for some other word to describe
the sacred tie that bound me to you.
I'm not saying love's a plaything.
No, it's a powerful word,
inspired by strong desire
to bind myself to you.
How I wish that we never had tried
to be man and his wife,
to weave our lives into a blindfold
over both our eyes.
