i am not used to working with truths.
my feelings are not accustomed to
being said out loud,
and my soul feels at home in the
darkness of my ribs.
i am not used to being good at things.
my mind works better with
lying its way out of things,
and my teeth feel better when
bluffs scrape off of them.
i am not used to reciting my heart like a book.
unfortunately, for me, lies do not
live to die of old age,
and not every pain can be
twisted into a pretty poem.
sometimes, we must speak plainly.
sometimes, we must face the truth.
sometimes, we must scream
at the top of our bloody lungs,
until the truth hurts
just a little bit less.
