The Lies That Exist In Her Peripheral Vision.

She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten down to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest... clock. He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew nothing else. Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied to herself again. He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled viciously around her face, her peripheral vision capturing sight of years long past, and she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was scared. He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk backwards and the appearance of Sunday if she didn't trip. She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe Sunday didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to the windows that glimmered with afternoon light... that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a woman that had seen the formation of a smile on Monday.