The intentions of a wordsmith.

A sudden call to anger. The heart tightens and fingers curl imperceptibly. Minute muscles of the face tense in reaction. Disgust. Realization hits like ice, past carefully placed blinders and drenching the warm bandages time was trying to hide pain with. Cold and sharp, it shone - it bled; How... long. How long a lie can actually last. When said from sickly sweet lips and practiced eyes. How long a lie can last, in the name of love. Disgrace. The heart drops... such disgrace. Traces of spittle left on beauty. The dry and cracked vestiges of a continued assault belying truth to those who would see it. There, where intention alone supplies a slippery handhold for one clinging to sanity. Flimsy; The intentions of a wordsmith. Action is left behind along with reality. Thickly woven lies. How long...? Only the entirety of a declaration.  This not beauty. This is bullshit.