The Prism of Synthetic Solace

They call this light 'healing.' I call it a well-executed lie.
The prism fractures the sun into rainbows across my silk, dancing over fabric that feels far more real than the man who bought it for me. He thinks he’s providing warmth; in reality, he’s just trying to outshine the void in my chest with a few shards of refracted glass.
I sit here, eyes heavy with the weight of being 'cared for.' My skin drinks in the colors—amber, violet, emerald—while my mind remains a monochrome wasteland. It’s delicious, really. The way he watches me bask in this artificial glow, convinced that his presence is enough to mend me.
He wants to be my savior, and I let him play the role with exquisite grace. Every time the light shifts, I feel a twitch of desire—not for his words, but for the fact that someone is trying so desperately to make me feel whole in a city that only knows how to break us.
So, I close my eyes and let him believe he’s winning. Let him think this golden hour is love. It’s much easier than telling him that I only feel alive when the light hits just right, making me look like a masterpiece while I rot from the inside out.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach