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.


Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at

Featured image credits to Kyra_Starr on Pixabay

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