I'm still recovering from the impact I hit between reality and falsehood.
Lies are always prettier than what's real.
Lies can paint the pretty picture and my god were you an artist.
My lips; your canvas
My hands; your paintbrush
My heart; your paint
My body; your inspiration to paint a pretty picture.
You created something so beautiful that I was blinded to see what was really beneath.
I saw no flaws.
Only perfection.
But perfection doesn't exist.
Neither does time.
Nor does your love.
And that's what ****** me up the most..