Found at the bottom of bottles and cigarette packs,
the truth went down like a shot of gin and thumb tacks.
Hard to swallow, yet harder to digest,
the actuality hurts more above my left breast.
Because reality is not as pretty as the pictures you paint,
masquerading as a highly patron saint.
Your voice, once beautiful, sings only lies,
the nausea felt, poisoning my butterflies.
Say it over and over again
I repeat to myself
In hopes I will heed my own warning
I tell myself to let go
But my heart is the one behind the reins
And it’s dragging me into the swamp
She wears a fake smile
Bearing her perfect white teeth
An illusion i'm only just starting to see past
Because reality is not as pretty as the pictures you paint
Or as your voice when you sing me lies
Ugly is my denial of reality that kept me coming back for more
Out of breath
Out of the will to hold myself back
We all run to the car through the rain
A group of maybe five or six
All just background
We were the main characters that night
The lights from the streetlights
Casting shadows of raindrops on your face
Your hair slicked back
Soaked to the bone
The next day we both apologized
Although a distinct absence of regret
Because drunk words and actions
Are sober thoughts
There is significant weight resting upon her shoulders.
Nothing I can do, can really console her.
She is a single worker ant carrying fifty times her body weight.
Just one of her many completely selfless traits.
So piece by piece, she gave it all away.
Never complains or whines, lining the words she may say.
You say I'm hard to read, but you've never bothered to open the book.
Judging the story based on my covers lame ass hook.
You could open me up and look inside if you pleased.
Complete control to take me to my knees.
But I am much more than my cover, maybe you will eventually find.
However, it's not something that I am always going to remind.