I think that I like build a fantasy, inside of my head.
Do you want you hear about it?
Maybe you care, maybe you're too out of it, but, I'll tell you anyway...
In the fantasy, everything is okay.
Nothing is broken or damaged.
Nobody is ill or sick.
It's almost perfect.
And I'm okay living there.
Until something goes wrong.
The fantasy breaks and shatters and the tiny splinters stab me in the back like lying knives.
I turn around too late to notice that everything is wrong and that the good things are fake.
And then I see you, your usually bright and happy eyes are half closed and sleepy. Why are you so still?
My knees haven given away, and I'm lying beside you. You're not crying anymore, that must be a good thing, right?
I hold my hand out for you to take, but you're too weak to know my gesture.
I lay my head down on the cold wooden floor, right beside yours.
I'm glad you have a pillow, it's uncomfortable like this.
I guess that
Everything good has become a puddle on the floor, like blood from a stab wound.
I remember when you asked me to take the pain away, asked you if you wanted any Ketchup with your food.
I'm so sorry I painted the fantasy, I'm sorry you had layers, and layers and layers of fantasy on you.
I guess it shows how broken we really are.
