the liar.

“What’s in that head of yours?” they ask.

Well, for starters, I’ve logged every conversation in my head noting all the lines I should have spoken instead of the ones I used. Most nights, I ponder over what could have been. A lot of nostalgia coupled with remorse and perhaps embarrassment. I think about my favorite passages from every book I’ve ever read and what it means to truly be in love, like the love they write about in novels. I am a library of texts and broken records and tattered photographs. And sometimes, I think about how I drank too much. I think about death, but not in the suicidal way. I guess I sort of romanticize it, the way star-crossed lovers do. Colors. Animals. Existential questions. What it would be like if I wasn’t so anxious. What if I had been born into a monarchy? Or why I am either totally comforted by the thought of home or dying to get out of the life I’ve made for myself. Tangerines are in season now, aren’t they?

You repeat the question, and in my defense to save you from the hurricane in my head, I say, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”


2 thoughts on “the liar.

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