Look at us, there, sitting pretty – all smiles;
photo after photo, flipping through untruth;
the blurry colors in the background,
have fuzzed the edges around me and you.
So much time tossed away seeking the simple;
something I shouldn’t have to choke free from you;
no matter what I want to believe or deny –
I can’t ignore the stabbing in my womb.
You’ve made your decisions, just like I made my own;
Back when life was a highway and my lead foot was down,
When the words between your mouth and mine
might have held meaning as they hung around.
Believe me when I howl at the waxen, pock-marked Lady –
That my intentions only run pure for yours,
That the scars on my skin can only barely begin
To ever describe the horrors.
I’m following tiny footprints down the spiral towards the drain;
In such a disillusioned, unwilling mind frame,
Piles and piles of lies and goodbyes, rips and tears and lullabies;
My teardrops obscure my perceptions abroad,
In a room full of people who only seem to smile or nod;
The fakeness: tangible, as the bills in a fold,
Tucked away, out of sight in a tomb of fool’s gold.