Are We a Fantasy?

Sometimes, I fade away into the hollows of my mind to meet with the other people who live there.

They’re people that have changed me in ways no one will ever understand. They’re as fictional as I am.

They’re bad guys and villains, killers and psychopaths. They’re also lovers and dreamers like I want to be.

I talk to characters in my head because they have more control than I do. They realize my life in ways I’ll never be able to realize theirs.

They keep me going; don’t allow me to give in to this heavy pain in my chest that breaks me down some days.

The people that speak in my mind dry my tears and coo sweet nothings in calm tones, they tell me I’m not as pathetic as I’d like to think.

Trust is hard for me, and with them, it’s effortless. They know my every thought and they know every fear. And sometimes I know theirs.

It’s a physical sensation when I disappear into my mind. I know it’s more than imagination. It has to be.

They tell me that I’m not insane, and that if I am, it’s nothing more than others’ perceptions. They tell me it’s okay to listen.

The people in my head
are the only people I listen to.