Lie to me. Please lie to me.
Let me not know that this is my truth, my reality. God let me not know. Keep my eyes clouded, blind. Let my ears bleed; prevent me from hearing those agonized cries.
They told me it’d get better when I was older. I’m older. Liars. Oh the sweet lie you did feed me.
Feed it to me, again. Now I beg of you. Feed it to me. Do you hear? But I am all alone. My weapon my only friend.
It murders, yet protects me. My hand trembles yet my finger is steady upon the cold trigger. A decision. It takes one decision to end his life. A father to his children. A husband to his wife. A son to his mother. We kill him together, we end his life. I can’t hear the sound of its initial release. He goes down. Eyes lifeless. I did that to him. No. The gun manipulated me, didn’t it? It’s not all my fault, for wasn’t I the gun’s server? Was it not I who followed through with its devious plan?
Come home. They tell me to come home. A pat on the back. Hands outstretched. Thank you’s.
I killed him. Killed him. A country free, people saved. Sweet freedom brings the onslaught of the tortured cries of his family. The task had to be executed.
Lie to me. Let me find pride in what I have just done. Let me hold my head high when his mother lowers hers as he’s buried into the ground. Let me smile when she will never know happiness again. All is well. Lie to me. Lie to me endlessly. My people, feed it to me.
My country proud, but it was not our soil the blood was spilled upon. It was on their very land. They feel that sorrow, yet you claim to feel it as well. Pathetic mimicry. You do not walk upon the blood of your fellow brother. For I did not die, he did. We both spilled blood. Not on our land, on his. My land safe, their land unprotected. The fatalities occur there, always there. Applaud me. Thank me. I deserve it, do I not? Look up to me. Boys and girls look up to me. For if you choose, I will be the one whispering the sweet lies to your deaf ears.
I beg of you to lie, but oh how I hate you for it.
You never think its real. How familiar it is. You always think it’s a faraway sadness. Can’t you see how it always mocks me, right here? Right on my very doorstep. How it haunts me? How I cry?
Happiness can never shine in dead eyes, but it can always be imitated. The tormented always are the best pretenders.
It is you who decides for me; what I feel. I never said a word. You know you can never discern, but try to. Yet what’s absurd, are those of you who feign to understand and think you can fathom, and give me scornful pity.
I bathe in your deceit and lies, mistake it for cleansing water, when it was a corrosive liquid that caused erosion upon my very skin, revealing my truth when all I desperately wanted was to hide it.
We are the same, aren’t we now?
We never did feel. You can’t, whereas I felt, but became accustomed to it.
What is it to feel, when all you have ever been is numb?