She draws blood but not her own and not visible to the weak or sad who would cling to every word with a reverence. The silent assassin who plots and without remorse goes through life bursting the bubble of languid minds reaching out for a collusion only to be crushed. Desperate for intimacy, for a chance to be part of a connection instead of the almost self absorbed need for coitus to feel good in the moment and then drown in one’s own criticism of their actions. A loathing and self pity yet such an egotistical need to tell. Each day serves for another elaborate lie, carefully thought out from a mind of confusion where the boundaries of fantasy and reality are rapidly merging into one. An unhealthy crush and almost stalkerlike actions where the lie has replaced reality with a grandiose inventiveness of a liaison that doesn’t exist.
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