Downfall by the Unreal

Wrong. Wrong. The closer I think I am, the further I am revealed to be. I am a fool; a blind fool who sought to make you something out of fragments and passing moments and glittering illusions. I am a lost cause and I make my own misery. It bears down and emerges through the open cuts on my skin. 

Wrong. I cannot even talk to you. The thought of seeing you wrenches my stomach, threatens discharge of everything in it. Because I was wrong. And I thought I felt something akin to love, but it wasn't; you're a concept, a figment, an escape in a world of trappings, and I - stupid, stupid I - got caught in the trap of your eyes. I should have looked twice before I let myself even near the edge. Now I'm paying the price for something imagined. I'm bleeding for you and you don't even exist.