I lie

by MaryAnn Vega

Remember that woman
who slit her tongue with
an envelope and her
mouth became home
to spiders?

I slit my tongue with life
experience and lies
nested in my mouth
until they grew out of
me like vines.

They often tangle with
reality and the honest
emotions that make
their way up through
my throat.

Yes, I stopped thinking
about you last Tuesday
at four. Yes, I forgot
what your voice sounds
like in person.

No, I never wrote about
the way your skin dances
with life. No, I have never
thought about loving you.
No, I never wanted you.

I lie. It sounds like music to
my ears until you ask me
to say how I feel about you
and I can’t find the right
rhythm.

Stay got tangled up in
asking you to go, got
caught up in telling you
no. Yes. No. Maybe.
Please. Stay.

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