diary of a liar part one

I knew when I picked that tulip from the neighbour’s yard

that I wasn’t just killing a flower but something in me.

I didn’t know what it was, then.

 

 

(innocence.

 

that’s what it was.)

 

I didn’t know why I told them that I found the flower that way,

broken and left to rot and “all I did was save the poor thing!”

it seemed natural to weave this story rather than confess.

 

I felt bad about taking that flower. for stealing someone’s

pretty pink pedals

that they’d undoubtedly cared for,

pruning and watering,

that’s why they looked so good.

that’s why I picked the best of the bunch.

 

they knew I did it.

I insisted otherwise, and received a slap on the wrist

no more severe than when I’d pushed my little sister

or spilled glitter on the new carpet.

but this wrist-slap stuck with me.

 

 

I’d discovered more than the sweet smell

of pollen or nectar or chlorophyll seeping

out the snapped portion of the stem.

when I told this lie I’d felt a joy in me that as a four-year-old

I couldn’t explain

but it made me warm.

 

I inhaled the shame and drowned in guilt and I thought

of how I could do this again and not get caught.

 

I was addicted.

 

 

and I knew it, then. 

Reviews

[Neva Flores Smith - Cha..]

love this!