I am not a good liar.
Mami always said I leaned
on my limping leg.
(She’s right.)
I’m sorry that I love it in my head, it’s just
that everything is true up here
and it’s not up to me.
Do you know what it’s like to be swaddled
with something like a blanket?
Something you’ve known to be true even when it burns
you to the core?
(An empty wick.)
We all want to say the perfect things, sing
sighing relief or love or just knowing
that we’re going to be okay.
I’m not a good liar,
but I’m a liar.
(And I’m good.)
And even now,
from miles away,
Mami can still see me limping.