A terrible thing. Like a mud of blood stained anchor with a mouseketeer hat on it. The trophy of a red headed stepchild who waves to no one every time the little train comes 'round. Waves at a grave that occupies the bottom right of their vision. And you can hear their fingernails clawing at the inside of that casket, they are screaming; they are dying, and it's your fault.
Such a silly thing.
How selfish we are to think that someone should be ours, that they deserve what we have to offer; better off alone, practically anyone else. After all, a little hyperbole never hurt anybody. Right?!
A curse, misfortune, corruption. A cancer. Like a carrier with immunity, infecting everything you touch, and you know it. Like a supermarket smut novel that you've already read fifty times, you know what happens. But you keep doing it.
You want something, you've felt it all your life(, Neo). But it doesn't exist. You want fiction. You are simultaneously the victim and villain in your very own book. Embellishments galore. Balloons and ribbons, foundation and blush. The creature from the black lagoon with groucho glasses on.
You don't exist.
You want. And you want. And You. Want. But there's not enough, not in the long run. You want to touch the clouds. But they're fake too. <3
Nothing is real. pinch you See?
Not even me.
But I still believe in you. (you can do it)