A fly... Sitting in the back of your throat, and I hear every whisper.
You are the voice of the voiceless... But what is it that you really have to say.

We are the placebo children. Those creating a false existence, our smiles just part of the drug we are believed to cause happiness. Synthetic voices laughing and we are numb. We’re the replicas of reality, taken, giving false hope to the dying. The belief that we are real makes them live as we lie to their minds.

Do you even understand?

It’s that kind of living, when you don’t feel real. Where every smile you give is false, and every laugh so artificial. You do it in the hope that others won’t know that you’re not really alive, and they’ll keep living with you even though really they’re living for you. They don’t know that every part of you has died and as you feel your insides rotting away terrified your skin is going to tear and everyone will see all the filth you keep inside.
A placebo child is fake. He/She knows what they are, aware of how they numb the people’s minds giving them the pretence that everything is alright.

It’s not alright.

A placebo child aches. Everyone wanting something from it and it knows that it has nothing to give. Not to anyone.
Perhaps there’ll be a momentary high from the sick sugar defamation, but the placebo child knows they’re still going to die.

We’re all going to die.