Uncharacteristically angry.
Your truth sounds like the lies I tell myself.
The buried truth.
The truth that I never speak.
Truth that my mind rejects.
My soul guards it.
You weasel. You snake. You parasite.
I’d never trust nor invite you.
Misguided anger.
I own these lies.
Hide them behind smiles.
Shit!
That’s how you entered.
The innocence of parted lips.
Betrayed by my own front.
Even lies seek freedom.
Even lies seek light.
Complex anger.
On the verge of tears.
I cup my lips as if the ward off an escape.
I’ve cried too many times about this.
I hate lending my energy to this feeling.
Paralyzed by the truth of the lies.
Calling them lies make them easier to bare.
The truth of the matter is these are not lies.
They just hurt too much to call them truth.
Truth is supposed to be beautiful and rich.
This truth is so murky.
Reflective anger.
Internal blues dodger.
Weary woman.
Hurt harborer.
Happy face painter.
Emotional knot-tier.
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