Little Lies I Tell

(Little lies I tell today,

Will surely keep people away.

What comes around, go around, they say.

I suppose I will deal with it, however I may.)

Most of my days

begin in melancholy.

In the morning, before the first beams of light reach my eyes,

I look up at the ceiling

and hope that there will be something greater that will emerge out of the bland room.

The room was my castle and my prison,

arranged in a mind that very rarely changed the courses of its thoughts,

its processes bound

by a single string of reminders:

Don't move the desk.

Make the bed.

Open the blinds.

Tidy the closet.

Day In.

Day Out.

The same lies flood my thoughts.

I'd taken on journalling, trying to put together the pieces of this jumbled puzzle, in a hopeless effort.

Maybe to find hope again?

The lies convince me that the bridge had been built, though I reckon I'll never cross it again.

Or if I do,

I know how it will all play out:

I'll stand close to the brink of drowing,

My lungs deprieved of air.

My hands helplessly slapping the innocent water.

My eyes adjusting themselves to the perpetual darkness that will soon engulf me.

Such is my nature.

Too long, I stand in decption.

I convince myself of a happiness which I cannot grant to myself, nor shall I ever.

I sway from the explosive conversations, though my heart convinces itself that it deeply desires them.

I lean away from the opened door, through which rich sunshine fills the kitchen.

I shut my eyes at my folly.

Lord, how did it come to this?

Have I always been a good liar?