I don’t want the truth.
I don’t want to know.
Normally, I hate uncertainty, but here, with this, I’d rather live with my disillusions.
I know what is real, deep down, but it’s too much to face.
And I do not need to turn my head, no need to turn it to you.
Because I already know without having to look.
I know what I will face, what I will see but I refuse to take in.
The difference between reality and disreality is no secret to me.
I do not need to see to imagine, I do not need to be told to know.
The truth is too bitter, too raw, too much.
This fluffy cushion is so much softer.
I can handle the beat around the bushes.
Stark reality will just make me bleed and cut and sting and scar.
Painful memories this will be.