The dreamer

She was the little girl who’s imagination was her reality. The places in her mind were so much better than the outside.

She was typical in her dreams. She wanted to be saved and cherished. Loved by someone, anyone. Wedding dresses and babies.

She grew older. During bad times, she’d retreat into her imagination. Into a world where she was a hero. Into a world where she wasn’t confused by the anger, the lies, or the pieces she had to pick up.

There were so many times she mistook a kind of love for the thing she wanted. There were so many bad choices made along the way. So many times she thought if she just have enough of herself that they would understand. Instead, she often was left with blood on her hands.

So many times she thought someone really saw her as a sign of love and not as a talent that fades with age. So many times where the hugs became a shadow walking away. Because no on wants to hold a dying flower, right?

The world was weighs all those dreams down. She realized that no one will really love you like the fantasies in her mind. And most moments of connection are fleeting. There are those of us who see and are seen. It doesn’t mean more than just the power of observation.

She’s supposed to love herself in spite of all these mistakes. In spite the ugly she feels inside. In spite of all the broken pieces of glass that used to resemble her tiny over blown hopes and dreams. In spite of the realization that she’s a monster, too. She’s supposed to look in the mirror and not worry about the next collapsing bit of faith.

So, the dreamer goes to hide. Locked in a tower while the quiet girl goes forward trying to skip all the parts of pain and focus all the same. It’s a mine field. Because if you are dazed by happy mirages then you’ll be slapped by a cold bomb spelling out: it’s not real. Curtain call. The show is over. All’s left is the lies we told you.


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