Liar.

 

Wow, my words are bitter,
aren’t they?

The more I retrace my steps
 And take a look,
I notice.

 

There used to be magic here.
In my finger tips,

the tip of my pen (before there were keys)
I had high hopes!
Beauty, hope, lovelovelove.

 

I still write about almost nothing
else.

Don’t I?

 

LOVE.

 

What a novel idea. What a

concept!

 

But instead of being freeing
It’s f*****g horrifying.
Little boxes.

 

That notion, that if I let you in
and you let me…
there’s too much potential.
I’ve seen too many hearts snapbreakCRACK
I’ve felt my glass heart shatter
on his kitchen floor
because he and I and they were too slippery and clumsy and careless.

 

I mean. I don’t care.

I don’t care anymore, butterfingers.

Lather up.

 

But the truth is:
I’m lying.

 

Reviews

[Adam Adams]

Love makes everyone lair. It leaves loves behind the cloak of predispositions where the analogies of love-hates work 'pon hearts. Liked the concept behind your story. It's heartfelt though real as well.. emotionally pen'd up write!