I want a change.
I can’t be this person anymore.
I’ve tried all my life,
but I don’t know what for.
Am I broken?
I don’t know.
But I have so little and nothing to show
for the efforts I’ve taken to be good,
for the things that I’ve murdered by living life like I should.
I only have these lines for all of my worry
and pages and pages of living someone else’s story.
I want out of this life.
To be something more than someone’s wife.
I wish I was the one taking instead of giving,
owning my life and finally living.
I’d make up for lost time.
Instead of paying for old crimes,
I’d commit new ones
With no regrets and with much bigger guns.