(Deception)

She found hope in the lies. It was her only abode. The only truth she believed in. So when she got to know the truth she was adamant to believe it. She called them lies. She screamed “stop, stop, stop” She wanted to hear none of it. She blurted out amidst her tears, thumping on his chest with her fragile fists, begging him to stop hurting her. Begging him not to do it, but he was set to do it. He stood on her front with a dagger laced on his tongue, and such a fiery flame in his gaze. Plates were thrown on his face, and with a tingle they broke into a thousand pieces, as he bled, the drips fell on his lips. She just stared, cried and watched as his face cut. How could something so special, something so beautiful turn into a toxic, a thing undigested?

But I don’t get it. I just don’t. What was it about the truth that she never wanted to hear so bad. Maybe she grew fond of the lies. Like foetus the lies grew in her womb, she mothered them, and into a child they came into being. She loved it. She nursed them. Little did she know, that he was a two face. A master in the game. She often said, “don’t lie to me.” Maybe he saw the good in her, the happiness and all that which made her beautiful. What made her her. She was happiest when he told her the lies. So enough was enough, he decided , to tell it all, but she couldn’t believe him. She knew, it hurt her, but she couldn’t hear him anymore. Everything changed in a whisker, and the only hope she had was torn away. Her baby was ripped off her womb and a fresh wound was formed.

She stared at him, with no emotions but pleas, “baibe please….!”. As he spoke, no sorry he muttered. she held all the words, and as they sunk deep, like a vikings’ sword it cut through her ferociously. Like a beast clawing out of her womb, she regurgitated blood and flesh at the same time. To her, he was lying. The lies were bitter, than the truth she grew fond of. She held herself on her sleeves, and prayed for it to end, yet how could it when her blood dripped, and veins popped. What could he have done, he told her the truth and it set him free, she sunk into the purgatory.

There was something adorably mesmerising in the way that she cried, something that made him want to stick. It wasn’t her tears and the noise she made while she sobbed. It wasn’t her vigour in cries nor the sympathetic look she bore. It was just her. The way she was. She cried with absolute discretion, she did so genuinely with no pretense nor devious expectations. She cried as though the world was coming to an end, yet she was just starting to enjoy her stay in this place. He found it funnily attractive. Her hopes were dashed in that fickle moment. His truths were the lies she doubted, and his lies were the truth she believed. Who would have known. He knelt down, picked her up from her feet, and told her, “I’m sorry, but you’re the woman that I’m in love with.” Maybe he meant it, or didn’t. Who cares? He drew the first blood, and she desirably felt like killing him. I don’t blame her, she was the victim. He was just a writer with a blank page, searching for muse, she was the character, he has never written about.

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As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master of Descriptions )
A Heart _ art _ poetics production