ever since i was a little boy
i've known how to lie.
it was always a tool for me,
no more evil than a tiny knife.
it was an instinct, guttural
and primal.
i'm not proud of it, but it's
the truth.
i've always known how to use it,
always had a good hand for it.
i've used it in hundreds of ways,
for a hundred reasons.
to hide, out of fear.
to hurt, out of rage.
to climb, out of greed.
to take a fall, out of loyalty.
i can't quite tell you why
i learned it, really.
it feels more like a habit,
well polished.
and maybe that's how
i learned it so well.
i'm not proud of it,
not even close.
i feel like some part of me
just always knew how to.
and maybe i just run after
reasons to do it.
i lie because i'm scared.
i lie because i'm angry.
i lie because i'm greedy.
i lie because i'm loyal.
is that the truth?
i don't know how to deal with
the truth.
i didn't know back then,
i still don't know now.
i carve it out of me,
with a tiny knife.
i scratch it out of my bones
anguishedly.
i bite it out of my tongue
desperately.
i pull it out of me,
like one would a parasite.
it feels intimately
vulnerable and painful.
it feels controversially
wrong and useless.
i don't know how to use it.
i don't know how to fold it
into a blade.
i don't know how to stretch it
into a shield.
i don't know how to tell
the truth.
is that the truth?
or is it just another lie?
i lie to myself.
often.
i lie, like to anyone else,
for a myriad reasons.
they say lying to yourself
is the greatest mistake.
it annoys me,
most of all.
not because i fool myself,
i could never.
but because, like any
other lying,
it's a habit.
an instinct.
i've barely any kind
of control over it.
and isn't that what lying
is all about?
to try and control
the truth.
now i have no control
over either.
the truth
spills out like the sea,
forcing its way out of
any restraint or mold.
the lie
lingers on like smoke,
too thin to grasp and
too thick to swallow.
isn't that
the truth?
