Sometimes, I Lie.

I just lied.

I'm sitting with my arms around my chest, wishing I hadn't given in. He looked so happy, so pretty, not a minute ago; what went wrong? I must've said something, must've triggered the explosion, why else would he raise these bruises on my face? On my back? My mask probably slipped, this isn't like him. But I told him I was fine. I told him he was forgiven. I told him all these things and he turned around, he said he couldn't look at me anymore.

I lied this morning, too.

My forehead pressed against his, I lied right then and there, telling him all the things he wanted to hear. I looked in to those almond eyes and I told him I missed him, I told him I loved him. I told him nothing would change if we placed small kisses in the palms of our hands, pulling them apart when we couldn't be together.

Yesterday, I lied to him.

I sat on my couch, phone cradled between my shoulder and my cheek, and he asked me when I'd be home. I told him I'd be back when the stars came out, then I got off my couch and hung up the phone in the kitchen. It didn't matter that I'd gotten home a day early, I'd let my pretty boy give me some space.

Last week, a snowball hit my back, and I lied.

He said he didn't mean to hit me with the soft snow, but I think he did. I think he wanted my attention, and I gave it willingly, batting my eyelashes like the snow didn't feel so cold. I smiled and I told him I thought he had poor aim, but I remembered the time we played baseball and he struck me out. I told him he should come a little closer, just to make it better. Do you think he said no?

Two months ago, I lied.

It was just a little white lie, it was just a quiet untruth. Because I wasn't following him, I was just curious about what the back of his shirt said. When he turned around to inquire, I smiled and shook my head, scribbling my seven digits onto the back of his hand before dashing away. Everything between my ears was sugary and awake, the feeling of hopeful excitement buzzing in my fingertips. So he called me that night, and we talked for hours. He told me all about his life and his sisters and his therapy that he didn't need, and I told him about my vulnerable father and my angry brother.

Last October, I lied to a stranger.

A pretty boy with honey-colored hair and hands like peaches came up to me and asked if he could borrow money for the bus. I told him sure, I gave the pretty boy sixty cents of my three dollars, and I smiled at him. He asked me where I was headed, and I told him I didn't know, I was just riding it till I got off. The pretty boy with almond eyes looked me straight in the face and thanked me, getting off before he could ask me my name. My eyes followed his back when he ambled away, and my interest peaked. If there were ever such a boy to be mysterious and curious, and so viciously out-of-reach, this boy would be him.

I just committed truth.

I didn't mean to have him find out, and now my cover is broken. He turned after he'd hit me, and now his crimson covers the carpet. He shouldn't've turned his back, he should've looked at me.

He shouldn't have let me lie so much.