Lip-biters are make-believe perfectionists turning a blind eye to a city crumbling.

Pretend not to smell the decay of a thousand dreams lying at your feet. Like the biggest garage sale, everything must go ‘cause I’m sick of remembering what could have been if only we had possessed the strength. A glass a day keeps the pain away but could never hide her desperate eyes. She’s drowning, I know. Sip by sip she’s sinking, watching death slowly take its hold on her; and I know it, know she’ll be lost in the aftermath, but this life-guard has resorted to awkward silences and averted eyes, caught in a fearful current of grieving and denial.

A smoke signal is released in quivering breathes I’ll choose to ignore. It seems tragically fitting that she turn to the object of her demise for comfort. With each inhale she just might be dying as well, dying from a kind of free will I can not—will not—stop. And I know that on some level a fire runs rampant through tired streets, but this siren is refusing to scream. If you never look directly into the fire you can’t be swallowed by the flames. A shovelful at a time and soon the problems will be buried alongside all the feelings I could ill afford; buried far beyond the sun’s reaches where no harsh light could ever expose them. But no amount of dirt or deodorant could hide the smell of fear as it settles like the kind of fog that stops traffic and screams “proceed with caution”.

I’m caught between flight and remaining frozen here indefinitely; knowing I lose either way. Decisions, after all, are about what kind of loss we can stomach. Call me selfish, but I’ll remain undecided as meaningful conversations play out over and over inside a mind ill-equipped for expression. The thoughts are all there, but the signals all wrong. Walls never brought two people closer, but frantically I’ll build, maintaining a distance so no one could ever point out the cracks in this shell. Hypocrite, the walls are only self-contrived. I know, I know, but I’ll pile on the pretenses for the sake of sanity. Brick by brick, contradicting thoughts tear down foundations until the lines between reality and fiction are indecipherable. How many buildings must fall until this feels real, or has this surpassed the spectrum of emotions entirely?

It’s too close—I’m too close—and all I have to protect myself is the thinly-veiled lie I’ve contrived. It’s easy to ignore the truth for the sake of happiness no matter how artificial it might be; but there will always be a part buried beneath a thousand insecurities, a thousand fears, screaming down abandoned streets. It’s your world, my world, becoming unrecognizable while our eyes remain wide shut.

Lip-biters are make-believe perfectionists and these lips are cracked and bleeding, trying so hard to keep the pieces together.

A/N: Well I added a little more to this...not sure if I'll be altering it again so enjoy (or not).