The lies I tell don’t evaporate when they lift off my tongue.
Some of them latch onto my lip. They peel the skin there. They infest my teeth. They rake their jagged edges on my jaws.
They grow. They grow and they grow and they grow.
The lies I tell form rows and contort their bodies around my limbs. They weigh me down. I love my lies. I love my lies. My lies braid themselves into my hair.
I tell them. I tell my lies. The people who listen believe them.
The lies I tell clothe me. They clothe me in a full length robe, the stitches in the them crush my waist every time I lie about my weight. They are what deliver my skin from evil. The lies I tell rush like blood to my cheeks when I tell them.
I carry my lies in suitcases dragged on uneven pavement. I carry them walking off a cliff.
I let them wreck me inside out. I let them go.
They don’t go.
My lies don’t leave.
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