The hardest part about being a liar is the desire for honesty.
It's hard to keep up the facade when you want nothing more than to spill your rotten guts onto the floor.
It's frightening to finally find a place -a quiet hidden away place where the stench of my rotting lies won't coil in someone's gut and force bile up their throat- to have a stolen moment to let out the screams and cries but not being able to choke them out from where i've wedged them in a corner of my neck. No, not a corner, a silver, a rotting red silver circle that winds around my neck like a choker. Like a target that if you hit and split open, will pour out blood stained words from decades past. Words that by all other's standards I should've let go of, but I haven't.
You shouldn't keep those words with you, they're truths you've never told, drafts of lies you perfected before spitting out the final and approved version, they're sharp and they cut and they hurt.
Maybe that's why I've kept them. Maybe that’s why I’ve kept them in my larynx, as a reminder that for every word i say now, i have said many lies before. A reminder that the red spider web slung across my shoulders, that flows from the paper crown a top my head to the bitten nail beds on my hands, that weighs nothing but feels heavy all the same, is not a warm cloak to protect me from the cold, but is instead a series of aesthetic and delicate shackles. All woven together, intertwined, like a twisted collection of fate's red strings; strings that bind me forever to that one fake promise I made seven years ago, and it will never let me go because the consequences of that lie and I are just meant to be.
I can't remove these threads, I can't tear them from where I've stitched them into my skin so intricately, have I replaced the blood my mother gave me with the lies I told her? Have I taken the needle and thread life gave me to stitch and patch up my mistakes and turned the thread into razors that cut into my own skin and the needle a weak defence against anything that wants to help me?
How have I become a person I want to kill?
How have I become accustomed to making the decision between weaving bridges with red thread over a floor filled with broken glass promises or wincing as I run across the sharp floor because the consequences are knocking at the door?
How have I become a person I can't stand to see in the reflection?
Oh, what cruel irony it is for the floor to not be marble or concrete but instead to be the soft soil in which flowers are meant to grow. Oh, to cry at the brutal beauty of the indifferent sun shining and scattering light after it passes through the glass, erasing the strange feeling one's supposed to feel when faced with a flowerless field and instead deceiving the eye, making it believe that the field is okay, that it's doing what it's supposed to be doing, that it's real and not fake, that it's beautiful like this and that the red isn't blood but is instead fallen rose petals.
Oh, to reach out a hoping finger to touch a flower and end up contributing to the red river flowing below.
Oh, to be a liar, so painfully aware yet so mercilessly scared, kneeling in a field of fake flowers, believing against everything, that one day a daffodil will bloom.