There is a beauty in the way we lie to ourselves,
constantly enamored by the truth and all of its implications,
yet still (desperately) trying to convince ourselves that what is, is not.
We spend our days filling up a void,
a clutter of good things; things that make us laugh, keep us sane,
Yet un-wound by the night
we are left vulnerable.
Seams that we have sewn un-thread; unravel.
Strands of truth cling to the sheets
like lover’s hair come sunrise.
Unwillingly pushing past our own deceptions,
We dream the truth.
However ugly we have imagined it to be.