I don’t blame you for the way that you are,
or the things that you’ve done,
for your intention was always
that you’d end up alone.
In truth, you were just a nameless baby in a basket,
abandoned on the steps of a broken home.
You had every opportunity to fight your way up,
and become, to someone, dearer,
but I found you always
searching for beauty
in the blackest and coldest of mirrors.
And so I questioned your ethics,
and begged you could change,
but with your roots deep in hopelessness,
and your head hung in shame,
you answered me “maybe we’re all just babies in baskets,
abandoned on steps, without names.”