Inside each door is another piece of me.
The more you explore, the more you'll see.
From the attic to the floor, you’ll know all about me. 
Will I start to bore or will you be intrigued by me?
My life isn’t all blood and gore, you’re just picking at pieces of me.
Inside each door is another piece of me.

You walk in, so bright, the walls so thin.
All the walls painted in pen.
You start realizing the loop I’m tied in, why my patience is so thin.
I’ve been toyed with, picked at, and thrown away by them.
At a certain point you start to dig a den to hide in.

You walk in each room, scattered within.
Swords and knives, you realize once again,
it isn’t easy having to battle when you’re open.
Tired of the war, I left myself so closed in,
buried in the dark, bruises on my skin.
I tried to love, got punished by them.
I tried to hate, got punished within.
What do I do? I’m asking again.

Each door leads to another piece of me.
All things that built me good, bad,
and all the thing in between.
I’ve become human.
I’ve become what you see building all these doors, making me,
trying to hide the vulnerable pieces of me
just so you can’t see.