You are addicted to fiction, my love.
You fancy yourself central to one -
You craft yourself with pencil lines and fresh-spilled tears
transcribing yourself on the page - flaws glossy and romanticized
Your skewed, manipulated sense of self-awareness that of the author
lost in the chronicle of her tragic character.
You pull your head out of your fiction long enough to catch a glimpse of me -
Me, maelstrom of contradiction, decidedly imperfect
And you are inspired - and suddenly the page looks empty
A sad expanse of wasteland
And your intricate underdog of a heroine seems isolated in her complexities
And from me you draw up another,
And you accentuate the things that make sense and you ignore the things that don’t.
We are your fiction now, my love, as much we are our reality
And there will come a day when our opposing dopplegangers’ worlds will intersect
And when they meet face to face, blood will be shed -
Sweet, oblivious misconceptions, slaughtered
And two fictional characters will be jerked from their fantasy
And forced to become warriors of reality.
But until then, my love, I am content
To lay beside you
Knowing that the only me you will ever love is one born from the confines of your own imagination
And that this small and somehow perfect world is a lie within itself -
Because I love this small eternity,
And the us that you’ve imagined.