we are born liars
with stories between our teeth,
on the tip of our fingers, waiting
to bleed on to blank canvases.
we write about
the wolf, the dragon
as if we know them. and
maybe we do.
maybe we are them.
the wolf with the heart that never howls back.
the dragon that burned down cities.
we dig through the pockets of strangers,
ask the ocean what she knows about unrequited love,
slip poetry in our lovers’ mouths.
there’s always a story
behind it / between
it / underneath it.
we paint with ink, swallow
heartbreak for breakfast,
sleep with pillows of loneliness.
we only know
how to tell the truth
by making things up
