In the arms of Another

I really don’t wanna be
in the arms of another.

But, you see,
he holds me,
he touches me,
he gives me what you don’t.
So even if I don’t feel him,
at least I feel myself.

You care for me – you say.
But your way of caring kills softly,
drains my life drop by drop,
keeping me in the distance,
like a mannequin for display,
while you touch others you don’t love.

So, in order to feel alive,
with the last threads of breath I’ve got,
I let myself drift
into the arms of another.