oxidation

you lie about the smallest things.

the time, the tone,

the truth you swear didn’t matter.

tiny lies.

mundane ones.

the kind you think won’t bruise

until they settle in my lungs

like dust i keep breathing in.

yet you brace for confrontation

like i’ve set a timer for it,

like i won’t eventually lift the sheets

you tuck your lies under and call it rest.

every pause after my questions gives you away,

that adolescent smile, those unsaid whispers

asking me to let it slide.

and i do.

knowing doesn’t change anything.

trust oxidizes quietly.

love, after all,

has a way of dulling the will to leave.

it doesn’t really matter, 

because your hands don’t lie.

not when they find mine in public,

not when you pull me closer in your sleep

to damp the loudness of the world,

not when you kiss me softly

only when no one’s watching,

glances exchanged in parking lots

like secrets we’re still protecting.

you kiss me like you’re afraid of losing me.

maybe that’s where the lies come from.

maybe it’s the only language fear has taught you.

maybe it worked back then, maybe it won’t now.

or maybe it will.

honest to god,

i don’t know if i care anymore,

as long as you never lie about loving me.