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.

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