The Lie

Someone once called me a scribe, a calligrapher.

Lady Lazarus. Prophet. I let the words roll off me. None of them fit quite right. Look at your hands, they say as they turn my palms over, but the ink stains don’t read like tea leaves — all they see are shins and shoulder blades. Nothing about the journals I drowned in the quarry, nothing about the crescent moon, or all that blood.

This isn’t fiction, it’s fission — I keep writing my old, divided ribcage into everything.

Poet. Artist. You aren’t reading this right. It’s not a story, I’m trying to tell you something. Those rusted spoons and collarbones — those cornfields and cars. It’s not a stanza, it’s hysteria.

And you’re still not listening…

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2 comments
  1. I enjoyed the poem. I wrote a poem at work in three minutes. My co-workers couldn’t believe you can write with such ease. People look at writers as odd balls because we try to figure out our world and put the thoughts down on paper. I’m listening. Please keep writing. Thank you for the amazing poetry.

    • Thank you for the thoughtful comment. I guess I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, trying to figure out my relationship with writing, etc. etc. Boring stuff. But it’s nice to know someone gets it.

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