Sick and surely.
I finished the Twilight series like the loser I am only to remember the incredibly real world I live in that leaves me feeling more and more empty.
I want there to be a magic in my life, one that I can control and look at and feel and think about. Not the illusive intangibles that scramble around me.
Then he comes home to me.
If only for a moment I remember that the stories hold couldn't begin to describe him;
My own personal lover boy.
The self destructive intrusive hatred with in me momentarily feels week. How could she not, when she steals a glance at his baby blue-green eyes that want nothing more to do but to love. "I HATE HIM" the hate screams to the body. But the body needs him, would die for him. A sense that maybe this body was made for something more than to cry, drink and write. But the other doubts it, even in euphoria, she questions the motives of others. "There is no magic here" the hate whispers.."Why are you trying to convince your self?"
I suppose that may be a good question. One that I am yet to answer.
I search for his secret angels wings. Part of me wants to cut them off so he can never fly away.
She reminds me, whispering again; "There is no magic here."
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