He flashed me a fake smile. He showed fake affection.
Nothing was real.

I wanted to slap him. Break down and scream "show me how you really feel, not the actions you were told to preform." I hated him. I loved him. I was afraid of him. I felt feeble when I was near him, like I was nothing. Just a speck on the windshield of his car called Life. But nonetheless, he would pull me into his arms when no one was around... when the lights had gone out... and press his lips onto mine without order-- like he wanted to. But I told myself that was all a lie. It all was. Somewhere above, God was drawing it out off the top of his head. If he wanted me to die, the eraser would press the page. If he wanted me to cry, pencil tears would roll down my cheeks. Nothing was up to me. Nothing was. Nothing.

I hated him. I wanted him. Wanted him to take off that tuxedo and put of some real clothes, and maybe we could go on a date. Your lips touch every hand but mine. He wore a mask. The face of a gorgeous man that didn't argue. Didn't yell, didn't disobey. Didn't fight, didn't cry. Didn't live and didn't die. Not ever, and not any time soon. He was fake. So... why did I feel this way? He could have anyone he wanted, string along any soul that would play a pawn to his pale fingers... but instead, he stayed by my side. My side. A skyscraper to my diminutive appearance. People laughed as we strolled down the street. He gave solemn crimson eyes that were curtained softly behind sleek, jet-black hair asking "Can I please dispose of them, my lady?" I choke, turning away and trying to contain the spreading of dark pink that creeped over my cheeks. Stuttering, I cough "No," and we continue on.

Forever.
Nothing is real.