It has been done.

A long time coming,
weeks of pondering,                                                                                
of thoughts ever-changing,
but I have seen it through to its conclusion.

First of all I want to say, thank you.                          
To me, myself, and I – I am so proud of you my girl,
                                          you stuck this one through                                                                                              to your gut instincts.
Drive, for once, didn’t deter you. 
                                                                      Passion lost shot gun; Reason sat in the front.

You were a beautiful dream, 
one I didn’t know I was falling into, 
                         but isn’t this how it always begins? 
 
We do not lie to each other and get away with it. 
                                                 We lie to ourselves and hope to get away with it. 
                                                             We cover the other's misgivings                                                              with our own makeshift bandages, 
                                                                                       lies so thin we use both hands to hold them in place.

Hand upon skin,
feeling the wind breeze through the hole 
where your heart should have been,
the cold empty places where your care could have been.

Trying to patch over your holes with excuses,
pressing down paper notes in the shape of hall passes, 
handed out daily to excuse the trespasses
upon my dignity,
upon my pride,
upon this self-worth.

Anything to make sure you don’t…
to ensure you won’t…
go away.
Because that would be worse, wouldn’t it?
That would cause hurt, couldn’t it?

I am tied to you, my masterpiece of delusions and lies,
paper-mâchéed across your body 
squeezing you out entirely,
until what’s left of you is me. 

I made you, created you, 
in the image of who I wished you could be.
Too afraid to let you – imperfect, unavoidable you – exist, 
to ruin my perfect fairy tale, Finally Not Alone. 

I wanted to write my own story so I did,
upon your skin,
until your skin peeled off and your soul crumbled to ash under the pressure 
and still I wrote, 
and you held up my lies and together,
we died.

No longer living, 
dying in this pantomime, 
not hurting each other,
not nurturing either.

I chose to awaken from this living death,
to see you as you are,
to remove my propaganda from your walls.

Because you are not made to be corrupted,
and I am not made to be corrupting.
I am made for love.