I’m not allowed to be messed up I’m the pastors daughter.
|Bite your tongue, don’t say anything.|
Don’t need fixing, don’t need help, don’t say anything.
Sometimes not telling anyone anything is a good thing.
I smile and shove, pretend to be perfect.
Shattered inside and frantically searching, trying to shove the pieces back together, can't let anyone know.
I struggle with not just accepting the brokenness. I don't understand what's wrong?
I can't accept this, it's not right. I'm broken and twisted, this is all backwards and wrong.
But we all have problems right?
Some people think i am beautiful. Think I'm right, my shards and smudged pieces are natural and good.
I’m told it's wrong, know I'm twisting nature, and yet I don't understand how.
Why is this so wrong when the right and good thing seems almost shallow?
But I have to trust, need to surrender my worries. My sins and problems, my stresses, instincts and thoughts cannot be trusted.
Have to believe that everything is going right, that I'm not an evil mistake, and neither is what's good.
But I can't share, can't let people know the struggle I face.
Everyone has problems, and yet mine seem so huge, so wrong.
Everyone sins, but not like this, no one expects
Not from me.
I smile and bite my tongue.
Some things you have to keep hidden.
No one can know what you're hiding;
I've got bruises on my tongue from all the things I could have said.