numb knuckles on the white sheets

i cry for a friendship that was untrue,

not really there at all. Surreal. (are you a hallucination or

a memory I've implanted to bring reason and logic to the sadness?)

I cry for a friendship that was untrue,

though it takes blind television light that stings my

retinas and pupils and irises (not flowers. never flowers) to bring

on the sobs.

even they feel fake.

artificial stimulus.

please decode my soul, I am far

too cryptic, I know

and never honest enough with myself.

a teaspoon of the truth would be nice

it's all I can stomach right now. (heavy medication.

higher dosage)

this is a heavy leaden numb cold that seeps

through my spider web veins (but blue of course)

to my fingers.

I've grown tired of this incomprehension and these

falsehoods that I sometimes utter.

lies are easier to hide behind

than the tears, my hands, the slats of open blinds.

hot and counterfeit my crying might be but

it does nothing for me

except to lead me to wish I wasn't so good at pushing

and shoving and forcing people away

when I might need them.

I

I can't

I can't admit

I can't admit I

I can't admit I need

I can't admit I need you.