(no subject)
I can see bright lights and smoke thicker than my bones. This was no intention, but there's no backing out now. I've got a pen that's bleeding ink all over my palm and paper full of nonsensical phrases, full of words that hold no meaning. Nights are wasted over uninvited thoughts and forged memories that I'll never forget, but none of it ties together. I can play the part of the tortured writer with a shrinking soul and mediocre vocabulary. But you -- you're a major part of my story now: the protagonist that never really existed. So, I've got to dig deep into my imagination and just believe that you're as real as any other half-dead body on this planet.
There it is. I smell hair that I've never felt. I see dead eyes with sparks of life that are so few and rare that no one believes me when I say I saw them. I see everything about you and I know how much you hate it. But you're perfect for this part. You're full of apathy and willing to chase any thrill you can find. Everything about you is technicolor and vibrant. My jealousy is slowly growing with each additional detail. They're just adding to your perfection and I suddenly wish I was a part of this.
I want this story to go straight into the action and forget about a steady lead to a climax. Everything should be feigned and rushed, because that's how it happens in reality. There are no feelings between you and the unimpressive actor I'll create to fall in love with you. The lines you need to memorize are full of lies and false hope. I know you can pull his off with ease. So bite your lips without thinking and draw in an earth-shattering breath, because those will be your vices. I want you full of adrenaline and pills when you speak the words I spent hours culminating into a cliché storyline under a dying light bulb during those insomnia filled nights. I want your eyes to give off those mythical sparks, but the audience needs to see them. Intensity, for fuck's sake. I need to see it all bared on your wrists. Your jaw should be trembling, but you're stronger than that. Now we've got a story on our hands.
The months go by and you're more familiar with the surroundings I created for you. I've grown despondent and oblivious to the outside world, because this story has become my life. Or, at least, where I want my life to be. Just the way you lay on your bed and thoughtfully look at the ceiling has me in knots and shaking. You're the fairytale I never had and this isn't getting me anywhere. With a deep breath and heavy heart, the story takes on a new plot, a new tragic ending. I don't mean to cry when the lines about your unexpected death appear on the page. But... but, I know I've been kidding myself the entire time. All I think about is you and how I'm not included in your life. I'm just a ghost that never leaves you alone.
With the last few letters visible, I'm finally free from this unfair, modern-day fairytale.
There it is. I smell hair that I've never felt. I see dead eyes with sparks of life that are so few and rare that no one believes me when I say I saw them. I see everything about you and I know how much you hate it. But you're perfect for this part. You're full of apathy and willing to chase any thrill you can find. Everything about you is technicolor and vibrant. My jealousy is slowly growing with each additional detail. They're just adding to your perfection and I suddenly wish I was a part of this.
I want this story to go straight into the action and forget about a steady lead to a climax. Everything should be feigned and rushed, because that's how it happens in reality. There are no feelings between you and the unimpressive actor I'll create to fall in love with you. The lines you need to memorize are full of lies and false hope. I know you can pull his off with ease. So bite your lips without thinking and draw in an earth-shattering breath, because those will be your vices. I want you full of adrenaline and pills when you speak the words I spent hours culminating into a cliché storyline under a dying light bulb during those insomnia filled nights. I want your eyes to give off those mythical sparks, but the audience needs to see them. Intensity, for fuck's sake. I need to see it all bared on your wrists. Your jaw should be trembling, but you're stronger than that. Now we've got a story on our hands.
The months go by and you're more familiar with the surroundings I created for you. I've grown despondent and oblivious to the outside world, because this story has become my life. Or, at least, where I want my life to be. Just the way you lay on your bed and thoughtfully look at the ceiling has me in knots and shaking. You're the fairytale I never had and this isn't getting me anywhere. With a deep breath and heavy heart, the story takes on a new plot, a new tragic ending. I don't mean to cry when the lines about your unexpected death appear on the page. But... but, I know I've been kidding myself the entire time. All I think about is you and how I'm not included in your life. I'm just a ghost that never leaves you alone.
With the last few letters visible, I'm finally free from this unfair, modern-day fairytale.