Lies Don't Sleep

I put your lies to bed,
fanning them around my body
like stones around a campfire
in dreams, hot coal inside my lungs.

Cradling, without touching me,
they have prevented me
from moving out the space they have kept me contained within.
They are like guards around a tomb,
only I keep tripping over them,
like shoes in a door way
and if I could toss them out, like yesterday's trash, I would.
I so totally fucking would.
But they cling to my skin
like that cellophane that just won't get off your fingers
no matter how hard you try
and it is never funny.

And recently, the lies have made themselves at home
under my skin.
I have come to loathe their presence as much as I used to loathe you,
and I am constatly itchy and nervous,
and now I have discovered that your lies have kept secrets too.

And those secrets remind me constantly,
that you also exist,
while I'm sleeping.