Other Lies I've Told Myself

I've said "I'm not afraid" and "I'll be here" and "Trust me."
I've said "You're pretty" and "I'm hungry" and "I'm yours."
I've said "Nothing is more important than this."
I've said "Believe me."
I've made my bed look like
an invitation, a beautiful distraction,
an irreverent sort of prayer.
I've said "This is the real thing."
I've said "Come here."
I've said "Don't go."
I've let him feed me strawberries, licked his forefinger clean.
I've said "You're crazy."
I've said "You're good."
I've said "I'll see you tomorrow."
And then afterwards, the sun gone done, the day over,
and something inside eviscerated, torn from the meat of itself,
I've looked at crawl spaces, imagined my body folded, tucked away,
out of sight and incalculably small, and said to myself
"No one will notice if I disappear."