To think of my task is chilling.
   To know I was carefully building the mask
   I was wearing for two years,
   swearing I'd tear it off.
   I've sat in the dark explaining to myself
   that I'm straining too hard for feelings
   I ought to find easily.
   Called myself Jezebel. I don't believe.
   Before I say that the vows we made
   weigh like a stone in my heart.
   Family is family,
   don't let this tear us apart.
   You lie there, an innocent baby.
   I feel like the thief
   who is raiding your home,
   entering and breaking
   and taking in every room.
   I know your feelings are tender
   and that inside you the embers still glow.
   But I'm a shadow,
   I'm only a bed of blackened coal.
   Call myself Jezebel for wanting to leave.
   I'm not saying I'm replacing love
   for some other word to describe the sacred tie
   that bound me to you.
   I'm just saying we've mistaken one
   for thousands of words.
   And for that mistake,
   I've caused you such pain
   that I damn that word.
   I've no more ways to hide
   that I'm a desolate and empty,
   hollow place inside.
   I'm not saying I'm replacing love
   for some other word to describe
   the sacred tie that bound me to you.
   I'm not saying love's a plaything.
   No, it's a powerful word,
   inspired by strong desire
   to bind myself to you.
   How I wish that we never had tried
   to be man and his wife,
   to weave our lives into a blindfold
   over both our eyes.