Illusions.
The more I think of them, the more I wonder just how long my nose has been nestled between the pages of a book.
Maybe, I’ve been blind the moment my family turned their backs on me. Maybe, I’ve been broken ever since I let a monster hold my heart. Maybe— just maybe, I may never look up from the pages of my beloved books.
Once I look up, I am afraid of being let down. Too afraid to risk drowning by someone’s hands that aren’t mine.
Let me be delusional.
Let me believe nothing is real.
















