How You Lie

How you lie

The bird came again. He perched there on the windowsill of our bedroom. I put him some grains in your favorite porcelain plate. The one with the silver and blue patterns you bought from the valley? I don't know why I picked it. It was just sitting there, all alone. I knew I could never bring myself to use it. It was too precious for me to blemish. And then I remembered that beautiful little, red bird I woke to the other day. And decided he must use it, to bring me closure.

You know, I talked to him, the bird. I told him about you. About your books, your cigarettes, your tea... But most of all, I told him about your love... and about your lies.

Remember the letters I sent you when I was away at granny's house? The ones you said you burnt after you read because they were nonsense? Oh how you were pleased when you saw my hurt eyes, tearing up, my lips trembling. Remember when I slapped you the time you mocked that one letter that said I missed you? You were so shocked, I almost hugged you. But then that smirk twisted your face and I wanted to slap you again. Remember when you said you stopped reading them the third time I left and came back? How you disposed of them even without breaking the wax?

I found them all, opened and worn from reading, in a box in your old office yesterday. You liar. I always wanted to stop writing after you mocked me that time... But you never did it again. It always gave me hope. That you stopped mocking. That you didn't say as soon as we sat to dinner, you chucked them in the chimney, anymore. And when I found them, oh how it broke my heart. Remember when I asked you why you never wrote me back? When you said it was silly when I was only going for a month and then coming home? I found a crumpled paper with a Dear Celeste, then lines after lines, scratched beyond recognition. You hypocrite. I didn't understand why you never threw it away. Perhaps you forgot? But nevertheless, I cried for hours when I found it... All dusty and browning from age...

I told the bird today about my hair. Remember how you said you hated it? How you always claimed it was the color of rotten apples? Remember how you said countlessly that you'd rather be married to a bald woman than a ginger? You shameless liar. I still recall how it was my hair you first touched when you came back from work. How you always ran your rough fingers through the ends of my locks when you thought I was too busy to notice. How you caressed it as I fell asleep.

And as he ate his tiny grains, I told the bird about our bed. You always said I made it too warm. You always demanded I stay at the far end of my side, said you hated the flowery smell of the oil I rub on my skin every night. Remember how you said I always rob you of the bed covers? How you always had to pull at them because I held them tight as I slumbered? I never asked you why you never brought another sheet. I never wanted to remind you of the alternative. But when I sat and pondered, I knew you never used another because you didn't want to. Such a little liar.

I loved how I always woke up in your arms, your nose buried in my hair and our legs tangled beneath the sheets... Our bed is too cold now. I find myself waking at your side instead of mine. Perhaps unconsciously I drift there to fill the emptiness you left in our bed... in my heart. Perhaps I drift there to feel the warmth I used to feel. But whenever I roused it was cold and lonely again.

He looked at me before he flew away. His dark, glassy eyes reflected my pale face. I remembered your eyes. You always made sure to look into mine as you lied. Was it because you wanted to see how I hurt? Or perhaps to make me believe you, for shifty eyes were always dishonest? You always looked straight into mine as you lied... Did you know your dark, dark eyes were always tender as they regarded me? Always warm and gentle?

And though your tales and mockery made my heart throb at times, and though they wounded me... there was always that one glance from soft unguarded eyes which gave me a glimpse at the truth of your childish games of pull her braids and call her ugly.

And as I sat there, alone after the bird flew away, I mourned your little lies that left me agitated, your annoying smirk as you find you still left damage even after so long. I mourned your small gestures. I mourned your half smiles and chaste kisses. The bird would never come back, of that I was certain. The winter had closed in. Perhaps it was silly of me to mourn the short one-sided friendship I made with the tiny red bird, but his little dark eyes reflected my sorrow, and thus I mourned myself as well as I mourned my loneliness. And as I let a lone tear slide down my cheek to drip from my chin, I knew what I was mourning was really you.

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