My dear, why do you pretend?
Why not let them see the wounds you've hidden inside?
They are not physical, like some you've seen;
They are mental and emotional, but still cut deep like a knife.
This face you put on
And this character you play
It's all fake. Faulty.
You're a fraud.
It's bittersweet the way you pretend that you're okay;
As if you were truly happy.
It hurts him to see you this way
And you enjoy it don't you?
You think you do,
but it's fake. Faulty.
You're a fraud.
It kills you; the way he is stuck in this perpetual winter.
Those wounds that mar his arm; you just want them to go away,
But he parades them around like a trophy.
Tell me now, what contest did he win?
Oh how sweet it would be for that smooth white flesh to return,
But this isn't sweet.
It's bitter.
The past is the past
and we cannot change that now.
It will haunt
And torment,
For as long as you allow it to.
So, why do you pretend?
Why not let them see the wounds you have hidden inside?
They'll figure it out eventually
And it hurts too much to hold it all in.
My sweet sweet dear,
Stop pretending.

i think i love you more than books
...and i really really love books
the romance begun when i was small,
the pages seduced me, the words entranced me.
for years i squeezed myself into the spine,
the bind becoming a welcoming embrace,
the smell evoked drool, the touch kindled an explosion.
i thought this was what real love felt like.

you prowled along, and without a blink swept me away.

for a minute, i forgot the dusty pages, the ink full of stories.
your eyes held all the passion i had read about.
your voice reminded me of all my favorite characters.
i became mesmerized.
and i had thought it was only possible in my books.
i stopped dreaming about my books. i started dreaming about you.
...i think i love you more than books.

i no longer need to escape,
i fall in your arms and i'm free.