The truth of it. 

I hate when people say that truth is relative. I mean, I know it is but right now it doesn’t feel like it. 

Right now if feels like black and white and this time you’re wrong and this time the feeling’s way too strong and I guess I’ll just go along…

I’ve been broken for a while now. Sitting here on a shelf. The boys call me Eleanor.


I see the crash of whites and blues. I’m terrified. I grasp for safety and feel it slip through my fingers. 


I’ve been softboiled, even a soft poke yokes me. 

Too long I’ve laid high on a hill with candy clear views. 


I tumble deeper into her. I am too weak to last here. 


The sight of blood is too enticing. I dream of silver. 

I laid down in the Temple of Apollo and was scorched by his light.  I came to lay with ancient souls and was bruised by their smell. 


At this point I can no longer fight her. The dancing swirls of me are hypnotizing. 

I feel her tugging, pushing for me to let go. 


I wish they knew my name. 

I want to return the face, but she is my truth now. 

I’ve forgotten how to hold on. 


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