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I’m sick of having a heart,

cut me open and rip this shit out.

I pray, I cry, I scream, I shout—

but no matter what,

it keeps getting ripped apart.

I’m sick of all these goddamn emotions,

wish I never had a notion

of what it is to feel.

Just keeping it real—

it’s always no deal,

so stupid of me thinking her heart I could steal.

I’m sick of having a heart,

cut me open, rip this shit out.

I plead, I cry, I scream, I shout,

and no matter what,

it keeps getting torn back open.

I’m sick of all these goddamn emotions,

wishing I never learned how to feel.

Just keeping it real—

because numbness was never part of the deal.

But here is the truth I can’t deny:

if it still hurts, it’s still alive.

If it still breaks, it still beats—

and that means something in me

refuses to leave.

I wish stealing hearts

was just as easy

as hiding my scars,

or shutting this off,

feeling nothing at all.

But if loving costs,

I’ll pay the fee—

because this heart still beating

means it hasn’t beaten me.