Liar

Flickering in— out. Wounds stitched with fidgeting, Fisted finality. She is. She was. There was a dream for which I was awake, A glorified foolishness and tragic mistake. Love—O love! Like a feverish thief, she reels, From my arms to the bed— From my head over heels. O, you beautiful disaster, You fictitious lure, You ponderous nothingness, Imprudent and impure. Like petals, I shed, Nude and undone. Sheared and severe— A moon without sun. Swiftly I buckled at your unfettered charm, As your fingertips caressingly weaved down my arm. And surrendered myself like a teetering child, Standing aghast at the gate to the wild. Liar. The word yanks at the stitches that burst unsewn, Shrieks into the deafness of happiness once known. Now I know. Now I do. How I had such grandiose feelings for you— They were as slippery as god; They were thick and reeked of rain. And though jarred and disenchanted, They somehow still remain. Even so, you are just a thing, With one mouth and two eyes. And kissable lips that fleetingly dripped The most gorgeous string of lies.