(un)titled

Telling told me something by Oisin Donnellan

I'll lie to you to spare us the row on the drive home at five.

I'll lie to myself that I'm sparing us both on the drive home at five past five.

I'll lie to the woman you'll lie to and smile at when we're just in the door.

I will lie to myself that my lies and your lies and her lies and our lies mean nothing,

Or at least not much.

You won't lie to me because you have nothing worth lying about.

I'll have to lie to myself that it’s no sad absence.

You'll lie to me and think I won't care,

but I'll lie to you and know it means my night's sleep.

I'll lie to a black everything that I will tell no lies tomorrow.

You'll lie to me that all is forgiven and forgotten.

I'll lie to myself that your lie is truthful.

I won't lie to you with an apology if I still wish our relationship was a lie I'd told myself when trying to sound bitter for the discursive essay being written at twenty past six.

I'll lie to myself that some part of it is good, and know no that part of that is true.

We'll lie to him if our lies are going in the same direction at twenty five to nine on the Thursday morning.

I'll lie to myself that he deserves to be lied to

and he'll lie to himself that the lies were white.

I'll lie to us both and say they're black because the darker, the warmer.

You'll lie to me that you didn't lie about me.

I'll lie to myself and believe you.

I'll swear this is the last time I'll lie to myself.

I'll lie to you when the drops come from the sides, and not the top or bottom,

and your darkening pinks will seal some unfortunate slits

and then tear them into me, because what I wear is too bright.

I’ll lie to myself that it's enough to make me happy.

You won't lie to yourself though

and I'll be honest in saying that I hate you for it.

I'll lie then about the hate, and call it heat of the moment hate

and lie to myself that the everyday saying is no lie.

You'll lie to me and to him and to her and to them,

and you'll spare only yourself.

I'll marvel at how you don't feel the need to lie,

to cover up your psychotic tongue

and make it seem like some sweet ember,

warming your skin while setting some evergreen to ever red.

It's blacker than anything I've indented, and that is no lie.

You’ll lie to yourself now that these lies are a desolate wood

at which you stare and fear while lying on a colorless sand

when you know that no lake lies between.

I’ll stop lying, and tell you that you are lost in that wood.

I am there with you, at twenty past two,

and telling has told me that the wood, sadly, never ends.