Liar, Liar

If l'appel du vide
is the urge to drown
all sense of self - to split
and accumulate bruises -
then to fabricate fables, to
forge fictions as I do
is nothing more than
poor impulse control.

I do not mean to confuse
or abuse the truth. My lies
are like thalidomide -
junkyard art shoved into being,
or the shards of
gasping hearts breaking
out of code. Making mundane myths
a la mort, a la mode; I'm caught

in distortion, pretty as drugs.
Junkie; addict. Liar, liar,
I require a fix of fiction -
the lies I tell and spin to sell.
(Some tears, a loose tooth,
the unravellings of truth.
The sum of myself out of
all that's left to give).

* * *

I'm attempting to come to terms with my own constructedness. The amount I lie – entirely pointless lies, mostly – is getting out of hand. Most of the time I don't even realise I'm doing it, it's only a while later that I'm like 'Hang on... That wasn't true. Why the hell did I even bother saying that?'
It's compulsive – like the want to throw myself under every car that drives past, the urge to fit myself into the smallest corner of my room or the sudden need to smash my wrists against something.

I don't have a clue what's going on anymore. :/