TRUE OR FALSE?
They say I’m deceptive.
That I murmur lies in the ears of pretty girls
and pepper plastic blossoms on the brown skins of Asian boys.
I paint in charcoal on a Sunday afternoon.
She’s a god in the Garden of Olympus.
But I don’t believe in god, love, or life.
I believe in power — of me, of you, of ours.
Flowers drip low from her lips.
I can see my painting looking at me.
I grab her hip and pull her closer,
and murmur choco-coated lies.
She laughs like there’s no tomorrow.
Scarred butterflies taint my arms.
There’s a home in me, where time is sliced in wings of sorrow.
A sting of nostalgia and time sealed with a stolen kiss.
Lovers die in ocean waves.
Summer love stains her lips maroon;
I wish I could know that shit,
but it’s better off like this.
The dream dies in the garden
like a trail of dead rose bites.
The sky cracks into a trickle of red
as my dream pushes me off the cliff.
I drown and drown and drown.
I see dead stars and devoured suns;
the truth and false game;
the win and loss.
But mostly, an endgame.
I taste blood and smoke;
something slices through my mind:
You win when you believe them.
And I am the winner this time.
Like another inevitable lie existing on the course of an invincible truth.
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Featured image credits to Kyra_Starr on Pixabay
