well, fuck

because

because real life is nothing like the books. because the books are better than real life. that's why we read y'know. or at least for me. reading is my coping strategy. for when I want to be left alone and for everything to be drowned out and become a low, dim murmur.

because her eyelashes don't fall and cast shadows across her cheeks. because her smile isn't white as the newly fallen snow. because he doesn't come out of every battle unwounded. because he isn't always a prince, sometimes he's a criminal.

because her flowers aren't a symbol of her beauty, they're a symbol of how much she wants to bloom and wilt and die just like them. because she isn't as fierce as she seems. because he can't save her or himself or anyone it seems.

because they won't fall in love at first sight and it won't be perfect.

because her cheeks won't be tinted pink, they'll be sallow and sinking. because his eyes won't be filled with wonder and adventure, they'll be dull and dreary.

because she won't have the cutest button nose and he won't have the slim, lean body that somehow still has a six pack of peoples dreams.

because her hair will be thin and constantly falling out and his won't catch the light golden rays of the sun.

because life will breathe every bad breath in their faces and time will throw every curve ball and maybe they'll make it out alive but chances are, they won't.

because nothing will just fall into place.

this gets gruesome sorry
because if you don't realize that those stories aren't real, then reality will come slap you and it will hurt like each of your four limbs were tied to a horse that was told to slowly pull away from you and you can hear the flesh tearing and you can feel the burning that tightens your skin and the blood drips.

drip.

drip.

drips.

and drips. until you have four waterfalls of kool aid instead of two arms and two legs.

sincerely and lovingly,
your own dear self crystal