Most of my lies
belong to me
forming a tight
enameled sarcophagus
in which I will be
remembered.
Others I have
gathered overtime
like dust bunnies
in unused front parlors
tucked softly under chairs.
Like someone else’s
discarded old clothes,
they are obvious,
and fit poorly. Over time,
I have become comfortable
with most of life’s happenstance.
Even now I pretend to know
in my silence, nodding sagely
over other’s conversations,
as if I had some wisdom
beyond circumstance,
allowing their thin opinions
to cling to me, layering
my cold emptiness
beneath wet shrouds.
(March 7, 2025)
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