My heart isn't broken, though most would say it is.
I'm not one to exaggerate, but I think it may be sick.
If it was broken I'd be dead, from depression, grief, and self-hate.
So I'll only say it's breaking, in which process it deteriorates.
I'm just so afraid for how long it's been breaking,
A spider web of cracks and constant aching.
I fear I'll never be fully mended; too many cracks to be taped back together.
I know deep inside this can't be replaced, so I'll be stuck with this mess forever.
My heart isn't broken, it's just falling apart.
Piece by piece day by day, my slowly breaking heart.
Every day I feel it tiring, dying,
But one day it'll be over. I'll be done trying.
But only then will I call it broken.