I think I have a little fetish with depressing storylines.
Fake.
Plastic.
Porcelain.
You hide your pain behind a cheesy grin.
You're a leader, and they follow.
They need guidance, direction.
You're forced into the position.
No grief, no pain.
A mask- a cold, hard mask.
Inwardly, you're dying.
Every little thing reminds you of him- your brooches, your shorts, soccer balls.
You dump things out of your room, out of your life.
You just want to forget.
You're breaking, you're cracked, you're imperfect.
How could he leave, how could he abandon you, how could he do that to himself- to everyone?
You force yourself out of bed; you don't know how you'll make it through the day.
Everyone treads thinly around you, careful not to trip.
You hear his voice, telling you to be strong, to live.
What did he know?
He's in your dreams.
You reach out, and he disappears.
You're grasping onto strings, you don't want to believe it.
You hate reality; you don't want to accept it.
Accepting it, you think, would minimize the loss, and you don't want his memory to be in vain.
You're Massie Block.
He's Derrick Harrington.
And you've just lost the first, the only love of your life.
He'd want you to live.
He wouldn't want to ruin your life.
You want to join him, be at his side, never to leave him again.
But that's impossible.
Because he's gone.
Dead.
You want to wake from this nightmare.
But you know you're awake.
But you're living in gray- you don't want to believe, you can't believe.
You're broken.
You don't know how much longer you can last.
…well?