Lies I never told, but never clarified
They with masks and scalpels
rewatch
the seconds I was given without consent.
My breath hitches
as warnings stillborn in my throat.
At this moment,
I am but
a body
opened
for overdue answers no one asked for.
A poet’s gift lies in the voice of Truth.
No—
A poet's gift is to lie,
constantly,
in lavender-gray syllables
threaded through with near-Truth—
The answer to unvoiced questions,
clipped out with tweezers,
a scorched coil—
my vocal cord.
I, a third-party haze—
rewatch
the moments I lived through like
faint breaths
fogging an oxygen mask.
My lies will be forgiven,
when they split open my sternum,
and find Truth still beating—
They’ll know,
late Truth cuts deeper than scalpel.
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