blue

to anyone who has ever
loved a story more than life,
needed a story to feel
their heart beating,
longed for another world
more than our own...
it's the worst sort
of existence, isn't it?

because stories don't
cut wounds in our skin,
they gouge into our souls.
no one sees us bleeding
from the inside out,
losing ourselves
to nothing more than an idea,
a made-up fantasy,
that heals us
and kills us at the same time.

we yearn for a reality
that we will never grasp
in our hands, like beads of
sand slipping through our
crooked fingers.
we scratch at our eyes
in hopes that the blood
that pours down
will paint a brighter world,
spun from the strands
of our deepest wishes
and most hidden dreams,
on the backs of our eyelids.

i think we can all agree
that the pain would be worth it.