I write fiction because I realized
from a young age that
I was a splendid liar,
with these pretty little lies
I ******* all nice and tight.
Slowly they became bigger
as I became bigger
and they became ugly
as I became ugly,
and still they came,
with more momentum now.
They grew thorns, hurting the
people who believed them.
I put them on the paper
so they could look beautiful
again.
Still they were false.
Still they sat in my gut
like an unwanted child,
a weight I couldn't help
but carry.
So here, another lie
for me to tie.
See, see how pretty it is?

Small flame in darkness,
You became my inferno


Your spark scalded me.

You were under my skin,
so i tried cutting You out;
now all i'm left with are
hand-me-down bandages
and something for the pain.

It could be so easy to leave you.
Leave you wondering.
Because I have unashamedly given you my all and I have gotten nothing in return.
All empty silence.
It could be so easy to leave you when you have faded out to feel like you were never there in the first place.