Real Liars

I'm content enough just to have the love of the colors on the walls. Maple syrup kisses of the dusk. Caramel apple lips of the dawn. In scant bikinis of alcohol knotting off its top. After a long bake in the cinema of sex.

That last taste curdling before it ever reaches my tongue. Swallowing the empty candy wrapper as therapy. In crinkles of cellophane. In a sweet, sweet downpour of the crumbs they forgot to consume. The situation with its shirt unbuttoned. With its condom in its pocket. Already used.

Walls staggering with the threat of us. Partitions of skin deciding our hearts. In a euphoric delirium of semen and sweat. The sheets like carbon. Saving copies of our every kiss. For me to investigate later.

They're just men after all. Rigid ghosts masquerading as flesh. Little doses of drug impersonating love. Faulty scales claiming to know the measure of a woman. Thieves with gift-wrapped fists. Santa Clauses with empty sacks.

The walls on all their faces the same.

No color.

The doors still locked.

No entry. No escape.

Just mannequins receiving his dick. In bitter chokes a clarity. In negatives of a future I can only see when I'm this high.

Graves drawn in pencil.

When I finally decided I had been used enough. It was more surrender than victory. More nysteria than logic. Convincing the wallls to look away as I undressed.

Naked for the first time. Naked forever. The suitable strategies of love still fresh in my mind as I left him.

The only thing real, what was gone.