I don’t hear words anymore, I hear half-formed lies. I hear your voice reminding me not to psychoanalyze, not to paralyze, to cut down instead. How could someone lie to your face for a month, then expect you to wake up and make a living?
How could someone call you on a broken phone line and whisper fictions, and expect you to keep walking with your head held high? How can I pull myself out of bed, talk to a boy with dark eyes, and hear anything but your lies? Because your lies are etched into my skin, beside the list of names I’d kill to have beside me. I never noticed that I stopped believing people, when they swore and promised and affirmed. I never noticed the truth could sound so ugly, yet a lie so beautiful.
But I can’t decipher anymore. They fall on deaf ears, get filtered through a static wave. If a lie falls flat in a forest and no one’s around, Am I still meant to hear it?