Maybe I could really cry

Maybe one day I will know why I cry myself to sleep

Why I’m haunted by images that seem to belong to another lifetime, to another person
Why I keep wanting to feel everything I come in contact with
Why I feel disgust to the most innocent of things
Why I crave to find a scar in the flawless
Why I cant tell the difference between what’s real and in my head
Why pain is comforting and silence a long wait to a storm

Asking the right questions they say is where most secrets lie
And maybe then
When I have an answer waiting to present itself in its true form to the right question,
I could really cry