The Lie

Is it wrong to grieve the living

More than the dead?

Now this could be the whiskey

Or the fact that this is risky

But I will speak of my lie

And the day it found legs

To run and cover up the truth.

This is the chapter of my story

I’ve long left stapled shut

To pretend it’s not why

I wince on Christmas Eve.

She held both her hands out

Shaking in front of her

Holding nothing like it was precious

And begging you to leave,

For the begging you to stay

Was a season that had passed

Fallen to the ground like dead leaves.

You screamed at me

You a grown man

Throwing a fit,

I suppose it’s fitting

That while you shirked the heavy mantle

You took up childishness.

At that moment I knew

That sometimes loyalty to one

Means betrayal to another,

You had none left for me.

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All of it was gone

Turned green and budding

For another

While you were watering

The garden not your own.

You had the gall to ask me

If I would have preferred

Your death to your happiness,

Not caring that your happiness

Meant the death of mine.

Did you see the hesitation

In my eyes when I shouted back

That I was glad you were not

Cold inside your grave.

I’ve always been a poor liar

But you hadn’t sought the truth

In many many moons.

Now the long barren winter

Lay ahead of me

And it was hard to stay warm,

When the sister down the hall

Promised not to smile

And the mother held me close

But her hands weren’t warm like yours.

There is much truth lost in speech

At least tombstones are honest,

Is it wrong to grieve the living

More than the dead?