The Cell

Lies on Tuesday,
maybe Monday,
can't recall
where it ends
and the truth begins.

Maybe there is no
truth left
only this jaded
fiction that you
threw me into,
further down
the rabbit hole...

I don't want to
be your story-book
character
because I'd only end
up playing the fool.

Lies on Tuesday,
cloudy Wednesday
that should've been lighter
than Spring.

Why do you claim it
knowing it's false?

Why do I let you?

I see through you,
through those lies,
through your weak
attempt at transparancy.

That's all you are now
a white sheet in the breeze;
soaked through with your own
misgivings,
your own deceit.

Just don't forget
that I carved myself
a promise
that I wouldn't,
- no couldn't -
let you wear
your shoes thin
on me.

search elsewhere
for your doormat
because
I'm not the one.