People Love An Ingenue
People love a ingenue, it's true. And you loved her too. The ever-changing, charming, pleasing gift of past, yet a perennial anew. Little did you know how many parts I had to break, stories I had to shape and tears I had to escape in the wake, of becoming a little less bleak every afternoon. I sit in my room and plot like my life depends on it, whilst I lose the closest thing to me that is youth. I warm your embrace with my "gifts" without you realizing, some days, I need that warmth too. But I'm out in the cold with a structure to unfold so I can produce more truth. And to hell with the old version of me that was told, to "always be herself". Funny, as they say, they peel every layer of naivety left. Like a shift to the strings of her heart, not eased by the little-st but interchanged enough for you.
Criticize the way she talks, laughs, sleeps— wakes to a new day with a new dread on her face. All gray and frail. She wonders if she will ever make it through— the sleepless nights driving her somewhere. All the Machiavellian affairs of fiction on some latest issue? Clutching on to the most trusted of her soliloquies some didn't see through. Will the lights hold on, for long enough, or change at the face of a new brew? Will she ever explicitly love the one thing she wished she'd always do? Will the people see the "true version of her" she's made for them, or fall through the curtains in a drool?
Answers to questions so abrupt, almost as if she can never be enough. But what about you? Holding her hand to be the best or breaking the point and beating around the bush? Is it really the swift rush of anxiety or do you just not understand that love bleeds? Take a glance at her epiphanies, and why does that scare your reality? Are you too lonesome to be someone else's color, aside from your usual blues and tarnished, tricky moods?
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