The truth sure is a bitch, huh?
Drown it out with sex and pills, and pretend I could bury the want. But the joke’s on me because six feet down is nothing when your pull is just like gravity.
I’d drink it away if I thought it would work. But I don’t do that anymore, and I’m not brave enough to tell you why.
I could wreck it all, and go out on a mission collect men like stamps in a passport. Naively believing one of them would make me forget about you, even if only for a delicious moment.
None of it changes the bottom line – it just fucks up the in-between. I owe you space and peace and a pass of innocence. If I never spill my guts, you can go on pretending you don’t know a damn thing.
The truth absolutely is a bitch. But it’s not incriminating if we only share it in silence.