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.