his lies were footsteps,
too many,
too heavy to count,
making excuses on my rug,
cutting its way like a machete
with words half blunt,
half end-her-with-a-hug.
at seventeen
his lies were footsteps,
too many,
too heavy to count,
making excuses on my rug,
cutting its way like a machete
with words half blunt,
half end-her-with-a-hug.
