No. 9

she told him all her secrets, and he looked at her as if he had always known. for a moment he was perfect, and his perfection disolved into her disdain, and she felt small and naked and it was if she had been acting, a game that she had played and he hadn't noticed. but the lies she told were the truth, and he had seen them all bubbling beneath the transparency of her skin, and he had pulled them out, each slimy strand of her insides, and laid them out. his sticky breath made each one shiver and shrivel slightly, but when it was over, she watched him hold the silvery things in his palms. and he made her loose promises to protect her secrets that she didn't expect him to keep but hoped that he might anyway.

not yet not yet not yet not yet.

don't break my heart yet. he said. and she promised she wouldnt. but the truth was more that she would try not to, but probably would anyway. she saw her status plummet to the floor, saw it in the way his eyes dropped, the instant it happened. (read: didnt happen.) it hurt a little, and she wished she could cut out the tangles and leave just the part that was fit to wear out to dinner. but what if there wasnt enough left to cover her? worse, her time was running out, and she soon would have to stop praying for the words to come flowing out of her, in exchange for forcing them out. she would need to strike fear into the heart of each and every word, until they marched, palms open in defeat, methodically aligning themselves into some order that resembled enlightened thought. sleep...would have to wait.

perfect taco.

more secrets. inside, she begged him not to leave. at least not without saying goodbye. (but the truth was, he had been gone for weeks.) polite notes from would-be strangers in the early morning hours do little to ellicit emotional response, do little to deliver what should have been remorse with regards to lovers past and wounds scarcely healed. sometimes, she worried that she was empty inside. prayed that she had not become as desensitized as she felt, and that when the truth came speeding toward her at 213 miles per hour (as she hoped, rather suspected it might), she would still be able to feel it. all of this waiting forced her organs into slow motion, and it ate up most of her energy, convincing her heart rate to remain stable. there was a stain on the floor from the crusty mess, but mostly the blood was gone, the scars were faded. honesty would reveal that things were, in fact, quite filthy, but the dull visceral pain that usually accompanied such anxieties was on vacation. awaiting its arrival with hesitancy, for better or worse, she felt undeniably numb.

liars are easy to love.

congratulations, sir, on cracking the code. and this she whispered, "I've always known that you knew everything there was to know about everyone else but you." this is more than what self help books and cigarettes can fix. when she sat down to write, the words she found made her dizzy with secrets, and although the feeling didnt last, she was sure to keep her scars in sight.

the dreams were back, though the other had left them, he still remained. last night, she saved him from some visceral peril. she couldn't remember quite what. tried to leave it on the couch and just live for a while, but the new subreality clung to her frontal lobe like grease to her t-shirt.

if you want to know the truth, a secret: i want a legacy of beautiful moments, a castle full. I want to fill the moat with all the parts that hurt the most, and walk over them every day when I come home.