Guilty as charged

My dreams are sometimes so beautiful I feel guilty for having them. Guilt from crafting something far more sublime than reality.

Everything seems so okay on the surface, but truth is, he doesn’t believe me. Last night, we sat there in silence because I didn’t want to tell him the full story. But my conscience was breaking under the weight of that glare of his that I couldn’t see — and he could hear it break. So the interrogation took place. When I eventually came clean, it was too late. I murdered trust.

More deception the following afternoon. Here’s a skirt that is so madly photogenic — I was supposed to sell it, but now I don’t think I can.