It was a world made on a faulty foundation --
where in which you told me you loved me
and I told you that I loved you.
And you smiled wholeheartedly
as I smiled halfheartedly.

And you asked if anything was wrong
because I wasn’t smiling like you were
but I assured you
that I’m simply not the “smily type”
and that being dismal is my
status quo.
But that wasn’t enough because you
wanted me to smile
as big and bright and truthfully
as you were smiling.
Whereby you unknowingly conjured up a facade
and the smiles came but they were not
genuine.

And you held my hand
and I held your hand
And it was no time for eloquence or poetry
because all the times you’ve inspired me to write
are when we’re fighting or

right now

where in which I’m cataloguing quite blatantly
the fact that I’m discontent
and that you’ll never know
because you’re smiling
and I’m pseudo-smiling.
And you can’t tell the difference,
and sometimes neither can I.

You’ve made me forget the concept of love
because I’m slowly realizing
that I cannot love you
because I am not what I am with you.
I drift father and farther away from myself
because you wouldn’t like myself
because myself is dismal
and cynical and apathetic
and curious and likes music and
is tired of hiding and
myself is not myself with you.

You love a lie --
and so do I.