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Explain to me how this isn’t a lie.  Reason how reality amounts to me plastering this worn, familiar smile on my face and pretend that we’re not all walking around on clouds of faux happiness.  

Remind me why I shouldn’t be angry at you.  The reasons why I should look at you and think of your everything but your selfish ways should be indelible from my mind.  Remind me why I shouldn’t feel second-rate; remind me why I’m supposed to accept this selfishness as okay.

Admonish me for rescinding my love for you.  For thinking it’s impossible to love someone without knowing what types of actions define them.  Rebuke me for feeling wary around someone whose deepest darkest daggers escaped the presence of my cognizance for 24 years.

Write your own eulogy.  Don’t ask me to illustrate a picturesque life of a human whose pallet I don’t even know.

But unnecessary are the reasons as to why I’m afraid to ask.  Because to tell you these things could equate to losing you, and that’s nearly the reason that brought us all here in the first place.