the truth is, i pretend to be a cynic. i am shaking fists & trembling teeth. i even mother my grief. and cry for my past tears. i behold my chest, all ribs and my liver's dead eyes. i am a liar. i touch too many of my heart's dead ends. i am ugly bruised and my matress is too thin. i lay awake at night, still with closed eyes. may my liver's dead eyes not see my heart's dead ends, or even my fingers in my ribcage when i crush the little too-caring nerves.
