I don’t like it.
I hate that I love it.

I hate that I love obsessing
over something that isn’t real.
I hate that the reason I love it
is because it’s not real.

Because it’s a fantasy.
They are a fantasy.
They are my daydreams.

I am stuck inside my own mind
A reality created by the fabric of my imagination
And I love it
And I dread who it’s made me become.

I no longer exist.
I am a shell of a person.
In my right arm is his love interest.
In my heart is his other.
My leg holds his best friend.
And he has snuck his way into
the deepest crevices of my mind.

Now, in my soul, or,
the remainder of it
Is her.
The self insert.

The one who holds my anxieties
My fears
My denial.
She is who I am not
She is who I hate
She is the me who will never exist.
Because I don’t want her to
Because I long for her to.

I’m so thankful for each one of them
I’m thankful that when I no longer care to exist
They are right there with a petty argument waiting to be had
Or a date night that needs planning
Or the exact words I need to calm myself down.

I also hate them with my entire being.
I hate that they love the food that I don’t
so I owe them a cheesecake or green apple candy,
and after one bite I’m sick of it.
I hate that when I’m doing something important
my mind drifts off to live their life, their fantasies.
I hate that even when they’re miserable,
at least they have each other.
And I don’t.

I hate that I speak of them constantly.
I hate that I’m not just me.
I hate that one day they’ll be gone
and I’ll just be an empty shell
With all but the absence of a soul.