Truth, what a flighty tempest,
what a silent storm.
How strange it is to speak it,
feel its mark on your tongue,
the metallic taste in your throat.
Mine has always been a silent world,
So words have not been easy,
some words have been easy,
greasy as words.
As another lie,
slips between my lips,
soft as a breath of wind.
And I have denied, and then denied
that I denied.
I have invented myself,
so many times,
so that others would believe.
They would think
that I was who they thought I was, and I suppose,
so that I, too, would believe.
And also for
no
particular
reason
I have lied, and that is
the truth.
