Truth is a Wall, Protects Nothing
I’ve spent the better part of the best parts of my life disguising
dark truths with darker veracity,
verifying my vulnerability as if the admission alone could armor me
against my own meandering sense of self:
the me that speaks like a wise, old owl who is more old than wise,
or the me that creeps
among secrets held too long, the young and slender jaws of regret
wetting my lips with a lathery substance that tastes too much
like a memory, so I hide
behind a lie of telling everything. There is no stronger wall
than verifiable victimhood, so I mold
bricks from trauma and mix mortar from whatever grit
they think exists
inside my mind/body/soul because I am still here.
I build and I build and I build.
Editor’s Note: This poem lays bare the difficulty of trauma and survival: even supposedly healthy coping behaviors can become a lie that holds true healing at bay.