LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 159
I lied to my mother about cutting myself, showing her only my arm and not the rest of my body. I repeatedly dried my blood in the sink at home. I used her bandages. I smelled the fresh scent of blood and felt the burning of burnt skin in her room.
I lied that I was starting to smoke that week when I was caught, even though I'd been smoking for a year. Even though I'd been drinking for a year. Even though I did it frequently, trying to get the cigarette smell out of my mouth just with my saliva while biting my fingers.
I lied to my father that I love him, how stupid, how useless.
I lied to my coworker that I don't like girls so as not to make her uncomfortable with my jokes. What does my taste matter? It doesn't matter.
I lied to my ex, saying it was okay that he didn't love me. I didn't lose anything, it's okay, it's no problem, I'm understanding, it doesn't hurt me. Believe me, believe me.
I lied to my ex, saying I didn't know a mutual friend liked me. Going out, laughing, talking, and pretending not to know anything. What are signs? Isn't it just my imagination? Maybe expectation? I thought it was very rude to think something based only on assumptions, but when it proves true, it's ridiculous and disgusting.
I lied to my coworker that my dog died because I was sad that she was sick, and now I'm afraid she'll have close contact with my family and ask about the dog. I deleted my social media accounts that I shared with her so she wouldn't see my mother's and sister's accounts in case they posted pictures with the dog.
I lied to myself, fantasizing, that my ex committed suicide, and he left a letter for me. He remembered me. Everyone felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for myself. I was remembered.
I lied that the repeated times I asked my coworker "Can I die now?" were a joke due to stress, not a real question. "Can I die now?"
I lied that I care about all of this.
I lied about my name. So many times.
I lied about my car and its color. Do I even own a car? Did I lie about that?
I lied that I've never walked in the circular, cacophonous dust of the stars, the eyes of Daoist masters that tell the legends of the qi of heaven and earth, the qi of death and the mountain of black pitch mud. The legends, the legends. If the birds sing of the spring air, the primeval essence of me becomes dry in contrast. All life struggles, seeking what is already worst and most unclean within itself.
I lied that I cut myself for refuge and self-control.
I lied that my boredom is a derivation of conformism and laziness.
I lied that the small stones on my feet are traumas.
I lied that I was starting to smoke that week when I was caught, even though I'd been smoking for a year. Even though I'd been drinking for a year. Even though I did it frequently, trying to get the cigarette smell out of my mouth just with my saliva while biting my fingers.
I lied to my father that I love him, how stupid, how useless.
I lied to my coworker that I don't like girls so as not to make her uncomfortable with my jokes. What does my taste matter? It doesn't matter.
I lied to my ex, saying it was okay that he didn't love me. I didn't lose anything, it's okay, it's no problem, I'm understanding, it doesn't hurt me. Believe me, believe me.
I lied to my ex, saying I didn't know a mutual friend liked me. Going out, laughing, talking, and pretending not to know anything. What are signs? Isn't it just my imagination? Maybe expectation? I thought it was very rude to think something based only on assumptions, but when it proves true, it's ridiculous and disgusting.
I lied to my coworker that my dog died because I was sad that she was sick, and now I'm afraid she'll have close contact with my family and ask about the dog. I deleted my social media accounts that I shared with her so she wouldn't see my mother's and sister's accounts in case they posted pictures with the dog.
I lied to myself, fantasizing, that my ex committed suicide, and he left a letter for me. He remembered me. Everyone felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for myself. I was remembered.
I lied that the repeated times I asked my coworker "Can I die now?" were a joke due to stress, not a real question. "Can I die now?"
I lied that I care about all of this.
I lied about my name. So many times.
I lied about my car and its color. Do I even own a car? Did I lie about that?
I lied that I've never walked in the circular, cacophonous dust of the stars, the eyes of Daoist masters that tell the legends of the qi of heaven and earth, the qi of death and the mountain of black pitch mud. The legends, the legends. If the birds sing of the spring air, the primeval essence of me becomes dry in contrast. All life struggles, seeking what is already worst and most unclean within itself.
I lied that I cut myself for refuge and self-control.
I lied that my boredom is a derivation of conformism and laziness.
I lied that the small stones on my feet are traumas.
