this is not the truth but it is not a lie

In the city there is the sound of children weeping.
We can hear them under the rush of boxcars and street lights
and the homeless couple fucking loudly and joyously
outside of our bedroom window.

You painted the staircase white and your eyelids lime green.
We painted the walls white and my lips crimson like crushed velvet; the carpet is white,
my legs tightly encased in electric purple like acid trip skinny vegan sausages.

We can hear the children crying and over and over again
we are at the kitchen sink
puking up our insides,
crying along, crying too, offering our hands sometimes over and over again,
crying over and over again, crying.

And the children hear us sometimes.

When they hear us, sometimes they wail more loudly. And sometimes
they are more silent then even our deadliest heartbeat:
the one,
that night,
curled up in the corner,
you are sticky with someone else's saliva slick across your lips,
and you smile halfway
and I know you can never die.

We offer the children bobbles we find at the Goodwill,
and we cover ourselves in silver and are never afraid to face the sun.