Painted Truth

A poem for lies you end up believing so much you can convince yourself they are true

Photo by Matt Botsford on Unsplash

Muted, greasy, messy
I stare in awe and disgust at myself and my art, a tangled ball of yarn
I taste the beachy salt of my lies hovering at the tip of my tongue, ready to unfurl and defend my last shred of sanity

How are you doing?

I’m fine
In fact, doing great

The pickle juice drips from my mouth, somehow a little spicy, souring my face
But I swallow that with my pride
I step closer to the poison I concocted
Trying to summon the strength to resist

But the lies mix with my old perfume and start to mock me in my sleep, knowing once I begin I cannot stop
And that fueled by my denial
They become a monster I can no longer control

Still,
I plaster a smile and spout social platitudes
The melody growing burdensome
The chorus annoying
The beats becoming not just boring — meaningless