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“Why do you keep writing about me?”
“What do you wish to get from all this?”
“Why is it that your stories are always,
some twisted version of me?”
She asked me frantically.
. . . . .
Because you give me a purpose.
Not like the purpose to live,
I’m not that delusional,
You’ll never be that, I know and respect that.
The thing is, I don’t have a vivid imagination.
Yes, I’ve cooked up lies,
And they may be called fiction.
But there’s a good phrase that reads,
“Every story has ‘a beginning, a middle, an end.’”
I can handle the beginning of a fiction.
It’s a little lie that I have to cook up.
But you are the one –
Who makes me cook up the greater truth,