Lies.
So beautiful upon your face and flesh.
They roll off your tongue like honey.
Smooth and glistening like liquid silver.
Elixir that sustains your phony swagger.
The show you put on to rip attention away from your bona fide story and true face. Oceans wide are your bloody lips, as you almost spill your brutal innards.
But you would never tell.
Enjoying the fraud all that much more than your invisible existence.
You purge.
You chisel.
You saw.
You incise, until, naturally, you manage to correspond with the silhouette that they dangle in the door way.
And the way that they seem to gaze at you makes all the deception feel almost worth while.
The shoes they bestow upon you, you put on, disregarding the throbbing.
The lexis off your tongue, they hand to you, word by word, and you suppress the gagging from the synthetic sugar.
You call it survival.
I call it sick.