Please give this picture to the police when they ask what killed me. I promised myself I’d take a break on the gift art but then @alice-angel-ask had to go and make these fantastic versions of her muse and I’m too weak to not draw them.
Maybe I’m not the girl in your dreams. Did you ever consider that? Perhaps the girl you dream about looks like me and talks like me, but has an entirely different persona which you’ve made up in your head - we share the same shell but are different people. Perhaps she’s daringly confident while I’m a hot mess. Perhaps she’s this intriguing mystery while I’m what you see is what you get. Like a banged-up old car – damaged but still going.
I know how you look at me, with that glow in your eyes. You put me on a pedestal, like I’m a God send – an angel, a gift. But I fear you praise an entirely different girl – a version of me that does not exist. One that says all the right things, one that radiates when she walks into a room, one that lights up your darkness. A flawless, unrealistic concept.
I bet when you dream of me you don’t imagine dark skies and endless steep hills. Because that’s what I am, my love. I am a thunderstorm. My soul is heavy and hard to love – but that’s not what you want, is it? You want her – the desirable option. But she’s not real. Rainbows and sunshine? Complete bullshit.
I don’t even want to get into what goes through my head when I look in the mirror. I seem to go, “oh shit, I’m getting older.” We all feel that somehow we’re exempt and then when things start to change and skin texture starts to change, I find it almost confounding. You’ve got to be kidding me. As if somehow I thought that I was exempt. (x)