doroughu

i can't lie.
i really can't lie once i think about it.
but then i can when i need it a lot.

I remember a year ago, on a Sunday. Sundays. Those kinds of days where its the nicest day but you gotta sit down and do what ever last minute school things your miserable teachers had to give you on Friday. On that Sunday i had an essay to write, over due geometry work, a dumb Spanish cross word that was as fat as a quiz grade, a painting that was half done, promised to finish it by Monday morning, and texting friends buzzing at me to come with them in the afternoon. all of these little demands were tugging at the stem of my brain. My legs and arms sprawled upon the carpet, my eyes were stale from staring, and then i heard my fathers foot steps. i knew what they meant. He stomped around the corner, huffing and glaring at me with the same brown eyes he gave to me. Standing over me, i could feel that question. I was getting ready to hit that right beat, jump and dive at that split second. if i didnt get it right, if I studdered, if i let my face do what it wanted.
"You got homework to do?"
And between the pocket of space and air of his question and my answer, i could feel all the stuff inside my shell of skin, my organs, my veins, my bones, my muscles, sucking in to my esophogas tangling inside out, coming together, in the back of my mouth and over filling on top of my tongue, like i was going to throw it all up. A tumor of pressure in the front of my brain, my face wanted to spread, my eyes wanted to widen. I threw the most innocent emotion i could find into the eyes my father gave me, making them pure as honey. my lips barely parted i thought it was all going to pour out, until my weightless tongue tap the fleshy roof of my mouth, my lips barely pucker o, the answer,
"No."
The quivering gore inside my throat was gone. In the sight behind my eyes, I saw all the homework, the painting, the paper full of scribbles and final strokes of the brush.
"Its all finished." I mouthed.
The strings under my fathers face loosened, his eyes went back into his head. "Alright." He waddled away.

Lying is almost the hardest thing to do for me. When i watch another person lie, its as if the akwardness of saying nothing but empty air was a parasite growing on their soul. Some lower their heads and glare with their backs lifted to make them look bigger, "No i didnt. What are you talking about?" Some widen their eyes, brows push up ward together, little lip, "How could you say that? I would never do such a thing." With a voice like little bo peep. They make themselves believe the lie, they imagine it in their mind, in the sight behind their eyes, and decorate their emotions to look as true as possible, make it closest to the true human fuel. But it's just empty air.

When another lies to you, at your face, if they're weak you can tell the emotion they present to you doesn't match the way you've known them. Some keep their eyes tied to yours, some look to the side and you can see the thoughts "keep looking at her, don't be a pussy, she can tell."Some you can just bust through them. With an off beat question they collapse. It takes a sort of strength to lie.You can't be a transparent image, you have to be the thick paper, the pigment, the shapes, you can't be empty air. You have to be able to hold it up. You have to be able to pull it out. You can't be empty air.