They called me heartless.

When I spoke at his funeral, eloquently written words, emotionally and vocally flawless
in my performance. But there must have been some fault in my voice. The way it
never changed tone, perhaps. Or maybe my downfall laid in my eyes -- dry, green eyes
that never betrayed my soul.

They called me heartless.

But they didn't see me afterwards. After, when I had laid on my bed under a cool, crisp
blanket of darkness. When all the finely tuned apologies I wish I could've said
stuck in my throat between stereo sobs. When I couldn't see anything better than
blurry through my red-rimmed eyes -- eyes no longer as dry as carbon dioxide
frozen.

They called me heartless.