He had this distinct smell, an aromatic smell. I swore he tracked my every movement; that way he could flaunt his scent.
One day I asked what it was he wore; what it was that made him smell like happiness itself.
His response agitated me to an extent, but I held on tight to the thought.
One day I decided I wanted to flaunt as well, so I took the boy’s advice and I wore a smile. I was going to be happy.
I found this boy, I took his hand and I spun him in the whirlpool of my newfound ‘happiness’.
He pushed me down.
I fell, but not onto the ground. No. This boy had pushed me into this room of reflection. Like Alice, I fell and met my deepest thoughts.
In that room, I was surrounded by the purest mirrors of hate, depression, anger, defeat, and failed triumph.
“You’re not happy” , he said.
“What scent are you wearing?
I bet its Aromatic Poison, but its sure not happiness.”
. . . . .