when I was younger
I told only lies
I told myself if
I said something
that made it true
as If the words I etched
would morph my future, my past
into something I could
revel in, wait for

I told myself that
my mother was young
she was beautiful, ardent, honest
that making  bonds in a temporary family
was futile, useless
that she would be there

I never really thought about my father
I told myself that he didn't matter
somehow, the imagined bond
between me and my mother
took up most of my energy
but the spun sugar web
of half truths and full lies
grew more bitter as
I did

I refused
to see the acrid truth
my mother doesn't, couldn't love me
she's never met me
and apparently, she thought naming
the man who sired me
didn't matter either

my mothers mistakes run
bolting my blood in reality
enforced in my head
through constant warnings
of pregnancy, drug addiction
as if I will ever make her mistakes
no.
I'll make my own

I've built myself a palace of lies
and as I step past the threshold
I wonder, even as I wander forwards
if my new truth
is made out of the same material
I wonder if this new truth
is a lie disguised as forgiveness

Because maybe I've just moved rooms
and there's a ceiling of clear lies
holding me in
as I think I've found freedom