Pretend.
The best part of believe is the lie.
I don’t believe in you. You’re like Santa or the Easter Bunny or one of those other lies our parents encouraged when we were children. They’d lie about a man spying on us year-round and creeping down our chimney, but God forbid we lie about sneaking into the cookie jar. What kind of man spies on little kids year-round, anyway? Fucking pedophile.
You’re not real. You’re just pretend. A nice picture for someone who doesn’t know better. But you’re not real. Not that part of you. Not the part of you that kisses me and holds me and fucks my brains out on white hotel room sheets. I’ve outgrown that part of you, the pretend part. The little white lie that supposedly does no harm.
You’re not good for me. You’re terrible for me. Like Santa leaving candy that rots your teeth in return for fueling his pedophiliac fantasies for the year. You’re turning me into . . . into something . . . soft and weak. I’m so easily shaken. And anytime something goes wrong I’m like a child with outstretched arms crying for it’s mother, begging you to pick me up and hold me and make all the bad go away.
This is not a good thing, Brendon.
I’ve learned already that if you depend to much on something, if you love someone to much, if you grow used to something . . . it changed. They go away or they die. And I’m sick of it. So I’ll give you up. You’re not real anyway.
Unless . . . maybe I can just pretend I still believe in you. I already don’t, but I can’t pretend. If they can lie, I can lie. Because you’re warm and soft and I just like to fall into you after the day’s been too long. So maybe just for a little while, I can pretend. Just for a little while.
What’s the harm, after all? I know better. I know it’s pretend. Because you’re not real. No matter how much you feel it. You’re pretend. It’s all pretend. But I can pretend. You smell like Skittles right now. But it’s just pretend.
You’re not real. You’re just pretend. A nice picture for someone who doesn’t know better. But you’re not real. Not that part of you. Not the part of you that kisses me and holds me and fucks my brains out on white hotel room sheets. I’ve outgrown that part of you, the pretend part. The little white lie that supposedly does no harm.
You’re not good for me. You’re terrible for me. Like Santa leaving candy that rots your teeth in return for fueling his pedophiliac fantasies for the year. You’re turning me into . . . into something . . . soft and weak. I’m so easily shaken. And anytime something goes wrong I’m like a child with outstretched arms crying for it’s mother, begging you to pick me up and hold me and make all the bad go away.
This is not a good thing, Brendon.
I’ve learned already that if you depend to much on something, if you love someone to much, if you grow used to something . . . it changed. They go away or they die. And I’m sick of it. So I’ll give you up. You’re not real anyway.
Unless . . . maybe I can just pretend I still believe in you. I already don’t, but I can’t pretend. If they can lie, I can lie. Because you’re warm and soft and I just like to fall into you after the day’s been too long. So maybe just for a little while, I can pretend. Just for a little while.
What’s the harm, after all? I know better. I know it’s pretend. Because you’re not real. No matter how much you feel it. You’re pretend. It’s all pretend. But I can pretend. You smell like Skittles right now. But it’s just pretend.