Lie To Me My lover

" My bones are aching; the sign of death. I know it in me. I will die, Leaving behing a legacy of incomplete things. I am wronged. By everything and myself. Or is it just me, me - my immoral duties. I have killed me.When Shall I awaken?"

Lie To Me My Lover

Happiness defined by fiction is everlasting goodness. It is such a raw definition. Not peeled, not cooked, not served in the refined manner. The stench of the dried blood of the definition kills me.

I remember my first true ecstasy. It was the day when my child died. She was of softness, was little, was cradled in my arms - a dead lullaby for the soulless stew of organs and blood. Then I laughed, cried, laughed, cried - it was the best of days.

My husband had arrived. Hoped his child would be heir of his all. He came and saw me. Then took the soulless body. Then he punched me...hard...

Mine was an unhappy marriage. Raped to the bone and soul. I was a child of seventeen and he a man of thirty. My father's poverty allowed the crudity of union. Oh, he loved his youthful wife to toy and play.

So, his tortures killed my strength. Killed his child. I was happy to be divorced from the evil, vile creature. The death of my child brought me no true grief.

I am a damned woman.

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Happiness, what truth is it? The truth of it is one must strive, strive to gain the truth. I could not strive for I was the damned.

Damned I remained. A play-whore to the men who possessed pockets.

My internal talents dried for misery. I did not claim them and they protested for my misbehaviour. My mathematics laid dormant - only arouse when money needed tended and to hold the accounts of all the men who approached for a "Night Lady." - which by certain ramifications would have me as honour.

It was Eric, Eric the one. The one who became my lover. The man who gave me doom.

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Happiness really revolves in limitation to the person who gives it reason to be limited. A prostitute like myself gives full reason. I could have managed. I was lucky to be not those poor souls who worked in streets seeking the coldness of a man so he may provide the warmth of money. Yet, I killed my hope. I sought passion but I was immature. I was twenty now. Eighteen when I had given birth to the child of my cruel spouse. With Eric all those hardships mitigated as flesh and flesh ignited.

Days were friendly and the nights friendlier. No moment possessed true tenderness. The voice of the mime (the subconscious) exploited the lies of this ardency with my Eric.

We spun kisses and weaved sex with the touch of the poetic writer. Yet the poem came out stale. The emotions felt unreal.

Still, when he lied I loved him the most. All to keep the dream. The dream was needed.

This was my second ecstasy. To perserve the lust of dreams and flesh. It could not matter how many women he bedded besides myself. Couldn't matter at all.

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Happiness cannot be born from lie. Why do I feel gratified? Possibly I am the blind woman as well who let one trauma rupture her. I should strive for then I can be stronger.

Eric says 'I love you.' as on our bed we do our passions meaning. I hear ' I use you.' when lips lock and feet meet in a fuzzy arrangement.

I whisper the same, ' I need you.' - for I use him for the need for the dream of "happiness".

He sometimes calls and says he can't come back home. I know he is with another woman then.

When he says he is visiting a friend I have a nightcap for I will be alone in bed that evening.

When he returns I ask, ' How was work?' , ' How was the project?', ' How was the visit?' or ' How was the trip?'

He replies accordingly. I get so happy I tell him that we must unite then and there.

Then when our lovemaking is over I realize my fake joy. All to have this dream of passion and power. When he lies I am most happy.

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Happiness is more than just passion and power. He left one day and never came back. I waited and waited. But he never came. He found someone else.

Still at times when he needed a body he came to me. I then recalled the "happiness" we once shared. We were happy those times too talking of...nothing...nothing important to me...

' I love you, you know.' After sex he would casually say, ' This absence is temporary baby. You understand right?'

' Yes.' I am mute by not speaking the truth. I will leave soon and he won't find me. I am going away from this house we shared from every memory we have. I have finally woke up from this dream. I have mathematics so I shall use it. Use it to professionally. No more tending for sex and money alone. I will mistreat my good skills no more. I shall feed her the manna she requires.

' So, see you next week.' he puts on his clothes and smiles.

' Sure.' I smile with false lips.

' Alright can't wait to see you - I'll send some money over. You don't do a job so you might need it.' he leaves.

No, I shall not need the play-whore's pay for that chapter has seen full-stop. I have gotten a job at a school far away from here. I shall go there immediately.

So Lie To Me My Lover as I have lied to you. There shall be no next week. No Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or Saturday. For I am off. Off from you, you Two-faced scum of the world. No patience can change you so I am done with you entirely.

So This is my final ecstasy. A true one. I have gotten my soul healed. I am sorry my beautiful child, forgive me for cruelly addressing you. I am sorry my incarcerated talents to have never used you when you needed air and light to help me grow. So, I am off. Now I'm whole.

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