here

play pretend

a sole survivor of a fantasy world
in a ball on an unmade bed
tear stained cheeks,  petrified of what comes next
a girl who built herself in the fleet of others
a girl who made dolls her best friends
a girl who trailed behind laughter alone
a girl who looked for love in places she shouldn't go

but the stories she traveled to always ended happily
in song, in prose, in movies, absently
her as the main protagonist, a lover, a friend
there was something so exhilarating about being able to attend
aimlessly wandering in lives without
a reputable silence, no expectations of complacency—
breaking through her personality of anonymity

she started with dolls, so carelessly alone
one by one they became the friends she wanted to know
one who would listen, one who would talk
one who would love her into aftershock
but myth wasn't reality, and her real friends were mean
cutting off heads and everything in between

so she moved to music so acutely her own
ones that sang her loneliness, her lack of backbone
she became the singer, dancing in her room
pretending she was on stage
preforming songs well into her teen age
but her sisters walked in, laughed and called her names
said she was too old for the games she wanted to play

next she moved to books, an unlaughable activity
weaving through stories told in objectivity
characters she so desperately wanted to meet,
to emulate, to be
but it dawned on her that it was an impossible mission
to be a figment of someone else's imagination

she moved and wrote her own stories
of friendships, of bands in all their glory
starting fiction was always the same
immediate and fast, it was the endings to blame
because no matter how many times she tried to write
her stories seemed dull, the endings were never right

as she grew older, she knew not of what to do
so she entered the field of writing, it was something she knew
but writing became technical, all the fun disappeared
it became competitive, it became something she feared
but the characters were strong in her head
loving and caring and widespread
she even snuck moments of theatre, her as the main character
in locked doors and dimmed lights, an in person editor
she finished stories out loud
to a room empty of a crowd

she's never finished a story to this day,
she blames it on herself and her all that play
she became sidetracked of a real life movie
one of high school sweethearts, a newfound beauty
she did everything to make her love happy
further isolation, further social anxiety
but it wasn't enough
so at night she dreamed of love
and in the morning, she let it go on

at some point, too many epilogues had passed by
and she needed to bid him a solemn goodbye
but his love turned into a fire breathing dragon
claws gripping for blood, imagine
his surprise when she kept on going
creating a new story in her blood, one of glory

it's been years now and all her dolls are left for dead
headphones ruined, hands stained red
books and her paper cuts, the pen and her scars
people wanted control, it was always on the card
of course some things are still new
a memory the social happiness she went through

this sole survivor's still breathing,
scared—yes—and bleeding
she wants to pretend, to play just once more
but maybe it's time for childhood abandon
she left everything else, so it's not uncommon
for the girl who is nothing to hit rock bottom