Hurt, Liar

There’s no truth to you. The endless folds of your skin across your body has a lie hidden inside each pale white bulge. You are a complex road map with no destination, because you don’t know what you want, I don’t know what you want, and there is nothing but years of memories to bond us together. I wish I could break through your folds of skin, break through and find the truth, but maybe the lies overtook the truth too long ago.

I want to throw my arms around you and choke it out of you. I want to throw my arms around you and choke out your lies, throttle your deception, maybe listen to the white bubble of breath (truth) leak from your small mouth. What would it say, that truth? Would it tell me sorry, sorrysorrysorry I didn’t mean to, but the thing is - you never did mean to. And I have heard you said sorrysorrysorry before, your small mouth working through the tears streaming through your eyes, the thickness in your throat that I so want to choke causing you to cough and sputter the meaningless syllable.

There are lies that dance in your eyes. There are lies that dance in your chest, lies that swarm through the endless folds of skin, lies that fester and breed and infest like insects, all through you. Sometimes I think this is your punishment, that I could live without throttling that tiny uninfected truth from you because you have a disease festering inside you. How does it feel to have infection swarm through your bloated body and blighted conscience? Does it hurt? Does it itch? Do you lay there at night, all alone with your disease and your infection, scratching at something you can’t quite feel, feeling something you can’t quite understand? Does it hurt?

Does it hurt, liar?

I hope it hurts. I hope it burns.