Tissues

There are tissues on my pillow;
Crinkled, but smoothed flat in half.
Sitting there, piles of them,
Trying to remind me.

There are tissues in my trash;
Crinkled, with tears captured inside.
Stored there, in hiding,
For when I can remember.

There are tissues on my floor;
Crinkled, with hours of myself lost inside.
Thrown there, in my haste,
As I try to forget.

There are tissues on my shins;
Crinkled, as red streaks stain them.
Pressed there, to try to stop it,
But they are far more determined.

There are tissues,
On my pillow,
In the trash,
On the floor,
On my shins.

But they do nothing more
Than mask the lies.
Hidden behind them is
Something so dark and dangerous.

Behind the tissues,
There is truth