Why is it so fucking hard to tell the truth? The thing that fucking kills me is that I honestly don’t know what to believe. Is it a big deal? Is it a small deal? Is it a sign? Just a fact? Does it mean you feel this? Or think that? What is it?
What is the context of your stupid fucking lies?
Am I blowing this out of proportion? Are you trustworthy? Do you just inevitably lie? Can you be honest? What would it be like if you were honest? You’re far too honest about shit that doesn’t matter. You stick that right out there just to eat at my edges. But then you lie. You lie and you evade and you just aren’t fucking honest. So the things you say come in pieces. It’s managed. It’s parced and sliced and shown on its edge. It’s polished and fogged and coached and spun. Isn’t it?
And then there’s the worst part. If THAT is not the truth, what is? Are you going to be there? Or are you going to throw it away? Are you just going to decide one day that you can’t forgive? Will you arbitrarily make up your mind, and will it be impossible to change? Are you going to toss them out? Are you just going to stop calling, or feel that it’s too hard? Are you going to refuse after you swore shit like “forever” and “always” and “till the end”?
How. Do. I. Know?
And really I’m okay either way. I do it again and again and again and again. They’ll lie and lie and lie. And you’ll want to believe them.
You fight it, but you can’t. You’ll mourn the girl that found another better friend, the distracted man, the forgotten lipstick tube. You’ll sit in the doorway of the empty room studying the marks the furniture left in the carpet, the outlines of where stuff was. You’ll cry in your car at night to sad sad songs. You’ll walk lonely miles. You’ll examine the letters and the messages and ache at the pictures that you don’t throw away. You’ll bear witness.
You’ll pray and light candles and write descriptions nobody reads. You’ll trust over and over at cost. You’ll buy yet another set of dishes. And you will not be able to count high enough to number the chances that are scattered like grass seeds. You’ll take out the memories of the marble steps and the officials, and the warmth of that hand in yours. You’ll believe and believe and believe. The rose petals on the water seal the promise, right? Maybe the oath on the wood bench? Maybe when he has never loved and will never love a woman like you, he means it. Maybe he really does want to spend the rest of his life with you. Maybe you really do touch his soul. Maybe he just really loves you. Maybe it’s all just so complicated. Maybe he just can’t tell the people that matter yet. Maybe we’ll all get real really. Maybe it’s just another little lie and you read too much into things.
Maybe it’s just another lie. Maybe it’s just this lie.
Yeah. Maybe. Maybe it’s just a lie.