the truth.

The truth is that I’ve never told the truth,
never have I ever been honest with you. Until now.
The truth is that flesh hides in mirrors,
and the grief laces my memories together
in a flawless,
broken,
scream.

The truth is that I’ve told you this story a thousand times,
in a thousand different ways,
from a thousand different people,
with a thousand different pasts.
But we are one and we are nothing alike but in the end we are all
tombstones,
in the tall grass,
forgotten before we had the chance to really live

And the truth is that I float above reality,
and the picture in the pocket of the boy
is a secret girl he never really knew
with broken hopes,
brittle bones,
paper skin,
bile.

I am disconnected from the world,
numbered days to be lovely and I will give anything
to be noticed in that invisible kind of way,
and I will give nothing if you
notice me.
don’t.

I will decompose into bones in the place you left me,
where “too late’s” meet misery,
and suffice to say this is the end of me,
broken bones,
bile in the bowl,
a paper cutout
of a girl you thought you knew.

The truth is that I always told the truth,
but you never heard my
whispers,
screams,
murmurs beneath the sheets where I
gave everything
and nothing
that would last you enough
to remember me when I am a
tombstone
in the tall grass,
a memory.

The truth is that
I am right in front of you,
screaming.