these past years, i've become the devil's prodigy with my affinity of lying. it's easy now. slips off my tounge like sickly sweet honey before i can blink an eye (but unlike honey, there's nothing sweet about it).
it might be my compulsive need to hide. i've closed myself off, taken the key and molded it into my pulsing mind where no one can find it, right next to the thoughts that will never leave my lips.
these thoughts. god. they're like hell if i ever knew one. sick and psycho and deafening to all else. do you not have them? the rambunctious laughs and the halting words. poking at my exterior like pins in a board or a needle on skin. stabbing and stabbing until what once was can never be.
Oh, the Horror. i wish i didn't lie because who wants to? keeping up with myself is like all those marathons i can't run and next thing i know, i'm lying unconscious in my bathtub with the fog curling around my wet, useless body.
if lying were a skill i'd be the master with my mind's cogs constantly turning and churning another one out before the first has even left my lips. they're sly and sleek and strong but so hidden that you don't know you've been hit hard, but by then it's too late.
sly and sleek. i said that? i can't even remember. these past few years, i can't even remember. i mean, i do, but it's a blur like fog on the glass or steam rising from the kettle — it's a blur and i can't see through but i don't quite want to see through.
i heard that when one experiences a traumatic event, their mind stores it away in an unenterable safe with some sort of ominous passcode that can never be found. it's hidden deep and deep and under the layers of slowly-decaying flesh and eroded feelings.
Oh, the Horror. maybe that's why i don't remember?
YOU ARE READING
sleeping lotus
Acaki miss writing, so here is some writing. i'm older and not wiser but the words haven't left me (yet). so here is some writing.
