The dream that kept me busy every night since the days of coloring for homework assignments,
is no longer fiction.

The fantasy that was so perfectly unreal
is alive and living in my heart,
but while it lives,
it tears down my mind as if I am constantly going off the trail I had kept clean for years.
Why is perfection tearing me apart.
That doesn't seem like perfection.
But it is perfection.
What is perfection.

The path I've made myself for room to grow is suddenly crowded with beautiful, terrifying, peoples that are always present, lingering...They're ghosts of you that haunt and mock me.

I am gifted to have what I do, yet without a little loss how am I supposed to feel desire, and lust?

Maybe I'm just broken...