you covered
your deceiving sentences
in pretty paper,
letting the gold flecks
blind the careful,
truth-seeking eye.
each fold you made
masked the truth
even further;
the edges too thick
to tear through.

you made lying
an art.
perfecting your trickery
with each crease;
simulating
the false concern
on your brow.

how many steps
did you take to hide
your intentions
or your secrets?
how many incisions
did you make
on your victims?
relationships
are supposed to be
beautiful demonstrations
of life;
not crumpled up
pieces of false hope
& fake actions,
curated to bend
at your command.

i tried to keep track
of what moves you made
so that i could make sure
you wouldn’t repeat them
on me.
but your nimble, paper cut
fingers moved too fast,
& before i knew it,
i was trapped in a suffocating
paper thin, paper-slicing
maze.

if only i had the scissors
to cut myself out of this pointy mess.
but once i unfolded one lie,
the rest unraveled before me
til there was just one
piece of paper
with the marks
showing where i
could have caught you out.

look at all those little lies folded up
into something so intricate
that looked treacherously beautiful
from the outside,
but was simple & sinister from the start.

you contorted me into myself,
creating an aesthetic crane.
but i learnt to fly out of my cage,
& out of your clasp.
i won’t be pleated
into an origami opus
for you to
display & deride.

i am not your paper to fold or decorate.

after leaving the door ajar for so long
(silently arguing over who was going to leave it),
you shut it in my face.

& i finally felt at peace
knowing whether that door could lead us to another place
or leave us in the cosiness of comfort.

although we switched opinions
a thousand times,
our hands don’t grip the handle anymore.

i don’t mind
if you locked or not.
the door no longer swings.

después de tanto tiempo con la puerta entreabierta
(discutiendo silenciosamente sobre quién lo iba a dejar),
la cerraste en mi cara.

& por fin tuve esa paz
en saber si esa puerta pudiera llevarnos a otro sitio
o dejarnos donde estábamos en la casa de lo conocido.

aunque cambiamos de opiniones
mil veces,
nuestras manos ya no agarran la manija.

no me importa
si pusiste el pestillo o no.
ya no se mueve la puerta.