All Of This Is Very Bleak

Why

Because I yearn for the right faces
with the wrong hearts.
Because I water dead flowers
and play jigsaw with shards.

Because I build the weakest towers
and try to climb atop.
Because I pluck the poorest apples
that have clearly turned to rot.

Because I paint decorous faces
with the best of my paint.
But I put them in lucid places,
where cons seldom fit in.

'cause I try to tailor my gaping hole
and try to make them fit.
The hollow is huge; they are pliant—
but I end up feeling like shit.

Because my romances are a circus
and I walk on wire.
They're the kindest when I'm the one
who's at risk of fire.

Cause my ex-lover was a magician.
and I was the best prop.
I called him out, so it was my fault
when his show flopped.

Cause my ex-lover was a performer.
I was an eager audience.
He lacked proficience, so it's on me
that I'd dumbly acquiesced.

Because my first love was a comedian.
I was her favourite joke.
I'd seen the punchline coming, so
it's on me that laughter broke.

'cause though my well is full of life,
she poisoned it, he spat in it.
How do I offer a drink to the next
poor soul who wants to fit?

Because there's only so much humor
to find hidden in tragedy;
because there's only so many jokes
I can squeeze out of me.

Because people don't look for broken things
if it can't be romanticised.
And I don't shout to callous poets—
repeat after me: they're ill-advised.