It all began on a windy day,

When I held my carved heart on a plate,

And that was when she tapped her heels,

Afraid of the fact I was hollow.

I held my carved heart on a plate,

Trembling as though I would never stop;

Afraid of the fact I was hollow,

A product of poor craftsmanship.

I was trembling as though I would never stop

Because of the parts I call broken;

The product of poor craftsmanship,

Like a machine stuck on repeat.

Because of the parts she calls “broken”

She came too close to that feeling again,

As if a machine stuck on repeat

Was printing pictures to preserve the despair.

She came too close to that feeling again

And that was when she tapped her heels;

Printing pictures to preserve the despair

That all began on a windy day.