The Aristocracy of Touch

 the truth is a broken smile. no words. only the dilapidated boxes that we never open.

the truth is a series of assassins. who often cripple, but seldom kill.

tender lies sell their medicine. to the desperate and the loyal.

time is the soiled bed where all those monsters sleep. waiting for us to wake them.

time is the stranger in the mirror that wears our face.

delicate skin flirts with the empty math. of what's inside. 

the truth ties its knots in our skin. 

and we spend our whole lives trying to undo them.