You never said you wouldn’t lie,
just that I’d had enough.
(I always assumed I knew what that meant.)
When happiness couldn’t come
swiftly, and when love came less than softly—
when ticking clouds could no longer sustain,
I tried to fish my heart from
the crosshatched lips of unknown faces;
you simply held my hair as
I left the poisons I’d ingested
at the bottom of porcelain bowls and sinks.
You said love was leaving
but it was okay, because I’d
never love enough;
my heart would leak lies
through varicose love
as easily as my veins
overflowed at wrist-bound docks,
and I would never be able
to love more than silence.