what i hold to be true

is that truth is most beautiful when it’s honest

and it almost never is

.

we bury the hard parts, hands scrabbling in hard rock soil

digging a space to place all the real bits

because we can’t bear to smell their lack of perfume

.

my yard is littered with these mounds disguised as anthills

and sometimes when i go outside, i kick them

just to make ants scurry

.

how dare they make food of my truths

feeling so at home amongst the words

i have buried?

.

i tunnel through these thoughts and recognize the folly

.

everything i hold sits in my heart

beneath a layer of crimson glaze

.

i prick my finger on the thorn of a flower

grown past its own revision

.

i let go

i let go

i let go

.

and ten drops of blood stain the thirsty dustbin soil

.

i cover my tracks with the swipe of a heel

sucking sweets through my teeth

remembering the rhythm of unbroken

.

the sun finds my face and claims me

with the scorch

of yet

again

.

.

.

.

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