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And when I greet death, I hope it's gentle. I hope it's like going home.

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Do you remember to leave the table when love is no longer being served?

Were you warned you could become the very person who spit on you?

Are you kinder than you feel?

Are you the key under the mat?

At best, a second option?

Are we, ourselves, Hell?

Will what survived be kind?

And what happens when we reach out and find we're all alone?

Isn't it time to move on?

Do you fantasize about rejecting the apologies that will never come?

Is there enough of you left?

Have you always been this angry?

Is whats left of your heart made of gold?

Will you ever again let someone in?

Will you take a gamble love exists and do a loving act?

Do you break yourself for those who ignore when you bend?

Is everything beautiful far away?

What is home if not the first place you learn to run from?

Are they cruel with your sadness?

Do we bury our stories as we bury our grief?

If you shall fall, will anyone hear?

Have you been there, waiting for them, ever since?

Will the sun come out and wonder why you left?