the truth about liars

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