I’m a compulsive liar.
Not the way you think

I lie to hide the ugly truth I guess.
I lie about not wanting to **** myself
My counselor asks me, and I tell her I haven’t thought of it in almost a month
That’s a lie
I thought about sliding a blade down my wrists to release the anger and sadness that I feel —-
I thought about tying a rope to the dock and allowing it to be short enough where I could almost reach the ground, but I can’t —-
Thought about buying those pills just to eat them all at once and feel my insides eating me out as I fade into blackness—-
I lied.

I lied about being okay
I lied about being smart
I lied about not being jealous
I lied about loving you
I lied about loving her

I lied about being able to feel all these emotions, because I don’t tell anyone that I can turn them off like a switch.

I didn’t lie in this poem though.
It was compulsive to write it.
And that’s what scares me.