He lies to me.
On the dot every night. Every night he's walking through those doors. He slides off his shoes. Slips off his coat. He makes his way upstairs. Comes in the room, grabs a change of clothes. Then heads to the bathroom and turns the light on once the door is shut.
After his shower, he creeps into bed. Fresh. Smelling of dove and also of sex.
And by now my face is already wet. Tears gather on my pillow just as he gathers his lie.
He sighs. Shifts in bed. Then spoons me with his arm around my small frame.
"Where have you been?" I knew my answer before I spoke.
He seemed uncomfortable. His mouth gathered saliva that caused him to almost choke on his answer.
He lies to me.
I just want to thread all of his lies together into a rope I shall hang him with. I visualize plunging a knife into his guts and twisting it as he does his words when he's caught in a lie. I want to revenge my death for I have drowned in a river of his lies. Many times.
And still he feels the need to remind me it's me that looks to deep.
I hate him.
