Why is everything less charming the day after?
After a vacation, returning to work.
After Christmas, and somehow we're relieved it's over.
After the first lay, because you know that's the best it will ever be.
We hype everything up like fools. Needing it to be this movie-like, magical, entrancing, indelible fairy tale moment. Or a string of moments, like a never-ending strand of bright, multi-colored Christmas lights that we wish, like hopeful, ruddy-faced kids, would shine forever.
Posting only happy pictures; see the perfect smiles, the bright eyes, the shiny hair.
And writing only inspirational, strained, hollow words, that even we don't believe.
Cramming everything that's secretive and painful and humiliating under our beds,
waiting for our parents to tuck us in and read us stories of innocent, dim-witted cats and dogs that speak, and clever forks and spoons that dance.
Why do we trick ourselves? Like the magic mirror on the wall exists solely to tell us what we'd like to hear.
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the biggest fool of them all?
And it would have to be me. For believing in us. Except 'us' serves no purpose. No more.
Some people do it right, get it right, and maybe I did everything all wrong, but you didn't stop me.
You let me carry on and ramble on, because I somehow thought that's all I was good at.
But, the words I could never articulate correctly and kindly, according to you.
And although I felt they didn't carry much meaning they could slice through the silence,
slice through a brick, because that's how you chose to take it.
But I would never be able to slice through your walls, even with the biggest sledgehammer.
We hype everything up, wanting to be so ridiculously happy,
as if happy is the answer to life.
But only you chose to focus on the microscopic flaws.
Not that my flaws are microscopic, because that would be the biggest lie.
But you searched for them, dug for them, hunted them like deer for survival.
And I never would have stood a chance.
And I could miss you, and I could want you back with every feeling in my body
that I pretend is numb or I so desperately wish it were.
I could miss you with every 'sorry' and every 'I love you'
and with every word I write about you that you will never read.
But, it wouldn't matter at all.
I'll go back to being Cinderella.
You will turn into a pumpkin
I will eat the rotten apple
and the mirror on the wall will shatter into a million peices.
Why is everything less charming the day after?
Because time runs out
and just like you and me
everything will end.
