My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page