When are you giving me back my sleep?
You keep me awake so late each night,
I watch the sky creep dark to light,
And it’s not yours to keep.
When are you giving me back my eyes?
I avoid mirrors for the fear
Of hating what I see in there,
And they’re not yours to make cry.
When are you giving me back my tongue?
It’s clamped down, pressed to roof in mouth
So words you don’t want to hear won’t come out.
It’s not yours to hold to ransom.
When are you giving me back my self?
If you won’t be what I know you could,
Don’t preach about what I should.
I’m not yours. I belong to me, no one else.