It’s a strange thing.
When you’re put on an impossible pedestal.
And the people you considered friends,
Are suddenly just fans, people who only care about their image of you,
Are inspired by the idea of you,
Are dying to just spend moments
With the pretty girl in boots,
And not the person you really are.
They’re madly in love with delusion,
And you know so little of them that a guilt, a searing guilt
Settles within your heart.
For seeing them as they are, instead of an illusion like you.
You know you did this.
You wished long ago to be adored.
Pushed aside, you despised being an outcast…
Now look at you.
You pathetic waste.
But people don’t make friends with gods.
The outcast you were manifested into a martyr of your morals.
Reborn into a ghost of your hidden sins.
They love you for everything you believe you are not.
And you are not.
You are a goddess of a facade created by the minds of men,
Who do not believe in gods, but only in the art of them.