if you wanted to know the truth, you would know that i am hardly ever truthful.
I am a master of deceit, a fiend of dishonesty. my tongue silver and my teeth poison, and the ugly truth of the matter is that i spend so much time swallowing my own tales that i fear i am rotting with disease from the inside out.
i can't stand to look in the mirror because it's looking into the face of my greatest enemy and the reflection is ugly and cracked like the worn sole of the nomad. the truth hurts like the exactness of a blade through dead flesh around a gaping wound.
i am a liar and i am lying to myself.
i cannot find my pulse and when i can, it's only to still the pounding that is keeping me awake late at night. the truth is i am afraid of the truth, and afraid of the light, and if we could keep the lights out every time you touch my hips, i would never have to confront the burning sun.
you would never need to see the concealed scars around my inner thighs or the white-out confessions bleeding through my skin like marker on paper too thin. you would never have to see the parts i keep hidden with candlelight and angles. you would never see the places where my heart is charred and burned, and you would never have to see how the whorls on the lighter match those on my twitching fingertips.
the truth i deny on a liar's tongue is that even though i whimper when i stand in the flame, i am afraid to leave the place i have come to know so well. i'm unaccustomed to beauty and unaccustomed to trust and i fear these more than the continual pain of self-inflicted burns. i ease myself into the boiling acid until my skin smarts and my heart quakes, until i am twitching from the cat-tail lashes across my exposed spine. i can hear their names, and i can hear my insecurities and i know, like i know the backside of the mirror against the wall, that i can cage and gag them.
i have the power to dispel my every fear and move forward without the limp in my step, and the truth that i turn my face from is that i can't let go of the crutch of my pain. i know pain and i know hurt and i know what the feeling of isolation is. it is comforting to be scorched and my throat is conformed to the shape of the scream.
i know the familiar ache, the familiar burn and surely the feeling of loneliness is easier to swallow when you never leave it. i am a coward with a lion's roar, and underneath the sound, i am nothing but a child with my hands clutching the side of my skull as if i can pull apart the clarity of reality. i am scared to be vulnerable and i am scared to peel away my shell of terror. i shadow the edge of my hurt like a wraith during the night and i slip into the ink-black waters during the day.
i drown because i know how and i open myself up to the well-known blade because the wound is already so warm and inviting. i know the bite and the sting and i know how deep it will go before the hilt hits my stomach wall. i know how much i can take and i know how to gasp at the air to ensure i will only double-over and not hit the floor. i can time the seconds between the heart palpations and how long until it will take for the flame to begin eating at the detonator length of my spine.
it is a familiar way to disintegrate, and my body always shatters along the same old fault lines. you watch as i break my mirror once more and you grieve the ashes at your feet. you don't know i set myself aflame only to hit the punch line before anyone else; you don't know i can't look in the mirror cause of homicidal eyes glaring back unashamed.
and the truth i avoid in clear glass and unrippled waters: you are beautiful and unfamiliar and have the kind of warmth i fear will be enough to still my limbs before i even smell the smoke. you have dark eyes and tender hands and the kind of heart that beckons one to stay and rest awhile. i fear these above all. trust and faith are a paralysis that blind and deafen long enough for me to leave myself open and waiting and whole for the breaking. oh, and your sting will be unknown, the press of your gunmetal to my temple foreign. the sound of death from your lungs to mine will be alien and i cannot guard myself against the hurt that could breed in your palms.
i can take death unflinchingly from my own broadsword, but never, oh, never from yours! so i will swallow my own poison and light the match to set this house aflame. i will stand in the middle of the smoldering room and i will avoid the mirror and i will focus my attention on that familiar burn. i will forget the way my wrist flicked across the matchbox and i will ignore the truth because truth pales when fear is eating this heart alive.
I am a master of deceit, a fiend of dishonesty. my tongue silver and my teeth poison, and the ugly truth of the matter is that i spend so much time swallowing my own tales that i fear i am rotting with disease from the inside out.
i can't stand to look in the mirror because it's looking into the face of my greatest enemy and the reflection is ugly and cracked like the worn sole of the nomad. the truth hurts like the exactness of a blade through dead flesh around a gaping wound.
i am a liar and i am lying to myself.
i cannot find my pulse and when i can, it's only to still the pounding that is keeping me awake late at night. the truth is i am afraid of the truth, and afraid of the light, and if we could keep the lights out every time you touch my hips, i would never have to confront the burning sun.
you would never need to see the concealed scars around my inner thighs or the white-out confessions bleeding through my skin like marker on paper too thin. you would never have to see the parts i keep hidden with candlelight and angles. you would never see the places where my heart is charred and burned, and you would never have to see how the whorls on the lighter match those on my twitching fingertips.
the truth i deny on a liar's tongue is that even though i whimper when i stand in the flame, i am afraid to leave the place i have come to know so well. i'm unaccustomed to beauty and unaccustomed to trust and i fear these more than the continual pain of self-inflicted burns. i ease myself into the boiling acid until my skin smarts and my heart quakes, until i am twitching from the cat-tail lashes across my exposed spine. i can hear their names, and i can hear my insecurities and i know, like i know the backside of the mirror against the wall, that i can cage and gag them.
i have the power to dispel my every fear and move forward without the limp in my step, and the truth that i turn my face from is that i can't let go of the crutch of my pain. i know pain and i know hurt and i know what the feeling of isolation is. it is comforting to be scorched and my throat is conformed to the shape of the scream.
i know the familiar ache, the familiar burn and surely the feeling of loneliness is easier to swallow when you never leave it. i am a coward with a lion's roar, and underneath the sound, i am nothing but a child with my hands clutching the side of my skull as if i can pull apart the clarity of reality. i am scared to be vulnerable and i am scared to peel away my shell of terror. i shadow the edge of my hurt like a wraith during the night and i slip into the ink-black waters during the day.
i drown because i know how and i open myself up to the well-known blade because the wound is already so warm and inviting. i know the bite and the sting and i know how deep it will go before the hilt hits my stomach wall. i know how much i can take and i know how to gasp at the air to ensure i will only double-over and not hit the floor. i can time the seconds between the heart palpations and how long until it will take for the flame to begin eating at the detonator length of my spine.
it is a familiar way to disintegrate, and my body always shatters along the same old fault lines. you watch as i break my mirror once more and you grieve the ashes at your feet. you don't know i set myself aflame only to hit the punch line before anyone else; you don't know i can't look in the mirror cause of homicidal eyes glaring back unashamed.
and the truth i avoid in clear glass and unrippled waters: you are beautiful and unfamiliar and have the kind of warmth i fear will be enough to still my limbs before i even smell the smoke. you have dark eyes and tender hands and the kind of heart that beckons one to stay and rest awhile. i fear these above all. trust and faith are a paralysis that blind and deafen long enough for me to leave myself open and waiting and whole for the breaking. oh, and your sting will be unknown, the press of your gunmetal to my temple foreign. the sound of death from your lungs to mine will be alien and i cannot guard myself against the hurt that could breed in your palms.
i can take death unflinchingly from my own broadsword, but never, oh, never from yours! so i will swallow my own poison and light the match to set this house aflame. i will stand in the middle of the smoldering room and i will avoid the mirror and i will focus my attention on that familiar burn. i will forget the way my wrist flicked across the matchbox and i will ignore the truth because truth pales when fear is eating this heart alive.
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