Do you lie like I lie?

You don’t fit into my frame. Hell! I don’t fucking fit into my frame. It’s too..big, too ornate, heavy, in-your-face, unattainable.
But it’s..pretty. Pretty ugly.
Something I’d hang on my wall of glory just to prove that I can. And then there’s you-you’d probably bang your head against the frame, feeling your way through the dark.
Perfection has never been such a Utopian concept.
Your flaws settle themselves under my skin, a layer under the layer, so you don’t hurt me, but I’d hurt myself anyway. Your ‘protection’ doesn’t stand a chance.
What’s the point of being an escapist if I can’t escape myself?
Fight or flight?
Float.