In the attic of my grandpa's old Victorian, a hole is hidden behind an old trunk.  Just simply sitting there.  The littlest bit of sunlight drifting through.  To you.  For you.  But you are not there to see it.  Nor have you seen the hole in my heart.  That you dug deeper with each look, each laugh, each smile.  How am I supposed to fill this empty crater?  With the artificial words you feed to everyone?  Or maybe all the lies you construct to break others down.  I'm sure you have enough to spare.  If each person lived off their own compassion, you wouldn't last ten seconds.  Yet despite everything, you managed to steal my heart and you still haven't given it back.