I don't like it.

I hate that I love it.

I hate that I love obsessing

over something that isn't real.

I hate that the reason I love it

is because it's not real.

Because it's a fantasy.

They are a fantasy.

They are my daydreams.

I am stuck inside my own mind

A reality created by the fabric of my imagination

And I love it

And I dread who it's made me become.

I no longer exist.

I am a shell of a person.

In my right arm is his love interest.

In my heart is his other.

My leg holds his best friend.

And he has snuck his way into

the deepest crevices of my mind.

Now, in my soul, or,

the remainder of it

Is her.

The self insert.

The one who holds my anxieties

My fears

My denial.

She is who I am not

She is who I hate

She is the me who will never exist.

Because I don't want her to

Because I long for her to.

I'm so thankful for each one of them

I'm thankful that when I no longer care to exist

They are right there with a petty argument waiting to be had

Or a date night that needs planning

Or the exact words I need to calm myself down.

I also hate them with my entire being.

I hate that they love the food that I don't

so I owe them a cheesecake or green apple candy,

and after one bite I'm sick of it.

I hate that when I'm doing something important

my mind drifts off to live their life, their fantasies.

I hate that even when they're miserable,

at least they have each other.

And I don't.

I hate that I speak of them constantly.

I hate that I'm not just me.

I hate that one day they'll be gone

and I'll just be an empty shell

With all but the absence of a soul.