crying over spilled milk

I’m a liar.

Not one who spills small fibs that dribble from my lips like one who is salivating from a sweet.

Not one who digs my claws into your skin as I release words that flood your ears with my lost cause and saltwater words.

But I’m a liar in the way I think it’s for the best that I do lie.


Sometimes I lie that I have been doing well lately, and getting better.

Sometimes I lie that I’m just tired- when I’ve just been crying.

Sometimes I lie about my identity so that I don’t get judged as much.

I guess I just fall victim to things like that and I think we all do.


But to be a liar does not mean that I do not speak the truth.

Even a mime has to wipe their paint away with the cloth of reality from time to time.

Sometimes, it just hurts less to lie.

You get to tuck away the sides of you that you’d like to hide.


I’ve got friends on milk cartons every few months.

They disappear and I mourn over them and ponder over their absence.

What it is that I did wrong- or if I did too much?

Did I forget that I am not worthy of love? Where did I fuck up?


Sometimes I sit and stare at the entry door of my house.

Waiting to see if I’ll hear a knock or gravel tossing in the driveway from tires.

I’ll fall asleep there, and wake up- only to check my phone.

And it’ll say there’s no new messages or calls.


But I see one. I see a huge message, a call for help.

Whenever I look into the mirror after washing my face,

Trying to clean away the dismay and hidden ash from hell.

Trying to keep lying as I push back my hair and practice that day’s smile.


I greet a clerk at a supermarket with that smile.

She’s wearing bright red lipstick with traces of it on her teeth.

Her hair is strawberry blonde, ridden with random curls she didn’t have time to straighten.

I look at each curl like a piece of truth that shines through jokes like light through an old curtain.


She scans one item. A carton of milk that she notices is leaking out and creating a small puddle.

One might wonder if I was afraid of drowning in it.

I apologize for the loss and say I will take it as is, with my nerves completely shot.

I try my best to soak up whatever is left, but there’s just no use.


She takes the carton from my shaking hands.

I tell her that the person on the cartoon is my true love.

He vanished a while back with no words of goodbye.

She tells me she’s sure he’ll come back, but I can see her lie.


Because she slid her tongue across the top row of her teeth.

The red pigment from her lips came right off.

That was the most real part of her;

that even beneath the surface, she was still wearing makeup.


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