Ourselves as liars.

Imagine

there are two sides to every story,

sometimes three, four,

most times there are twelve.

It depends,

on who we are, who we’ve been

and who we’re trying to be,

like auditioning for a role.

And it’s easy to say,

that you never tell a lie,

or that I’m always wrong.

If I were to believe that,

if you, are so able to believe that

then, clearly

somebodies a liar.

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We do not want, but accept these things.

Unintentionally rude.

Little disheartened sighs.

Incapable of speech.

And worrisome.

Fearful of what, exactly, is unknown.

Trying not to incite confusion.

Attempts not to quarrel only create greater tension.

Anxiety.

Disdain.

We do not want, but accept these things.

In silence,

there is no argument but a stalemate.

Like a fruitless game of chess.

On egg shells,

we walk,

stiff kneed,

toes clenched,

trying not to crumble.

Trying desperately to surrender.

Our sympathy and concern,

marred by our inability to grasp the others discontent.

We slowly close our eyes.

And wake in the morning,

anew.