burning alive.

You tell me that you’re happy
and use flowery words that are desperate for acceptance.
But I can’t accept this.
The stories are only half told as you sugar-coat your indiscretions,
making them seem so innocent and naive.
I can see through them,
and I can see through you.
Slowly, but surely you’ll begin to fade,
wasting away for the sake of your sin.
I hope that it’s worth it,
and when you tell me that it was
I’ll see the truth in your eyes.
But, for now, I’ll feign happiness,
for our sake and not let you know
that with every sigh you breathe,
every caress of the skin,
I’m burning.