Forget Me Not

by Karissa Kinword

I was a vassal to my own imagination. There had never been a time in my life that I felt completely in control of my own desires. Even when I thought I had found the same happiness I craved in those fleeting hours asleep, I still caught myself wishing to float into unconsciousness on occasion.

“I’ve met you a thousand times then, Book Girl,” he says. “In a thousand stories.”

It’s a peculiar thing, how we’ve managed to tangle ourselves in this game. Like we’re playing cards and haven’t yet deciphered that we picked the same suits—that the other will always have what we need to win.

I’m a dreamer, not a doer. I’ve always been perfectly content surviving on the fictional ′what ifs′ of life, living in my head with my daydreams, allowing the happiness of reality in bursts, but still always resorting back to the fairy-tale.