In these writings, we lie.

A smidgen of red, black, navy-blue ink over truth.  

Cross outs over uglier words, dotted full stops to string the infinite memories.

To make broken glass and porcelein cups whole again.

The kind of facts we did not wish to know, the kind that numbed your veins even in the summer.
We paint them white.

We are liars.
But you were my first *truth.

My words fall out

bolder {bigger and bubbled as if bee-stung},

then I meant.

Perhaps, that is why promises get broken.

Pinky finger bones crinkle and crumble like egg tarts and raw sugar.

The words, the lies, the truth are all bigger than my hands, heart can give you.

You make me feel pretty,

delicate as fairies, a bit cheekier than usual

in an old faded grey -stretched by the tumbles of the washing machine and dulled by the sunshine- t-shirt and old boxer shorts.

The scary, bold whisper of a truth is that pinning blame is careless.

You feel the slow *****; a smart of pain.

A sweet sting.

Just enough to draw blood to the surface, but not enough for a bandage.

Hold on a little longer.

Your veins need a pinch of time + a few more starry nights to become a little more impervious.

Oh, you are still fragile, but the kind of soft and all raw edges.

A bruise of a reminder that you have waltzed on broken fractures & bones of wishes hollowed out too soon.

And you are still here,

blood burnt out into alchemy.

You are quite like magic.

*We all are.