Wasn't life better when you could curl up in a chair and fall in love with fiction?
When fictional novels gave you a spark of life even if it was fabricated and impermanent
You'd close your eyes and imagine being in that world,
feeling love and comfort from a fictional male.
Remember when you swore that your best friend was bound to be your lover?
When he couldn't see past your appearance you shouldn't have seen it as a sign to change, you should have seen it as a chance to look within.
He didn't know you like that, or maybe it wasn't enough but it's just not about you.
All those nights that your boyfriend made you cry, fracturing your kind heart, I bet you wanted to burn all of those books that made you feel lovely, that gave you bright hope in experiencing fictional love in reality. And cut out your heart.
He didn't know the affect it had on you, but it's not about you.
I bet you held that cigarette up to your lips in the rain wishing you were not invisible but noticed more: "look at me, I'm dying inside too as I grow up".
Wasn't life better when your trust in people was strong; no tricks or lies
He told me that when people grow up and go through experiences they lower their expectations but I refuse to let that be me.
You let the silence eat you up and force out negative thoughts about myself,
but it's just not about you.
I've been at my lowest--I've been treated poorly--I can't live happily in a situation where my livelihood is sussed out by a dimming star; keeping me from shining by not joining in
He doesn't know you like that, doesn't rise to the occasion, but it's just not about you.
I spread my brightness, put my sadness aside and held it in for the sake of you, to comfort you. I got upset and pretended to be okay...you shouldn't have made it easy to do so.
I keep progressing and you're at a halt.
The fictional female in me says it's time to turn the page and start a new chapter.