She is crashing the illusions into reality.
I dont know how to talk to you, if you don't listen. All of the sudden, Im a ten year old little girl again. Mother's drunk and father figure Frank is smoking in the library. He's not there. She's not there. I can't open my mouth. I scream, but the sound waves can't travel through the rivers of wine.
My back has always been exposed. Im yours to keep, yours to break down.
I don't have anything else than this. Like there's anything here at all.
I could tell you about the time I let Mr Sheen pull my hair in an LA bed, I could tell you about how he injected heroin between his toes. I could tell you I did the same. but you wouldn't listen. I could tell you about the time I bit pneumonia white so hard that I tasted her blood, or the time I fell asleep in Pneumonia blacks lap. But none of us would know if it was true or not. I don't know who I am, so how am I supposed to tell you?
The illusion is my reality, so if it crashed - it did so a long time a go.