Man.

Cockroach; you sit alone in your cloak,
resting in the ruins that you swear
you'd left behind. Smiling blind.

No, that's not quite how it goes.
Not this time. Oh, how I know what
they don't: Within your disguise
lies a heart made of stone, surrounded
by a moat of blood; infested with
the ghosts of lovers past.

How crass, never letting a lifeboat pass
to rescue the current soul. Letting the
rounds roll to the ground, firing blanks
just to make a sound to scare the helping
hands from your ventricles. There,
where I lay trapped, wedged within the
walls of false and fact. Making a spectacle
of myself just to see how you'll react.

Tell me, is this what you have planned?
To hand me in with the other casualties,
so this secret doesn't land with a
person who stands a chance? Oh, and:

I may be a victim of your little balance act,
but if anyone is reading this, please,
warn the other lass.