Denial

so when does the lie become

real?

when i swallow it?

so bitter at the end of

my tongue,

itching my mouth and

scratching my throat?

when i wash it down

with more lies, or water, perhaps?

when does it become true?

when i digest it.

so i swallow and drink,

but it does not break.

it sits there stubborn-

and the wretched thing

doesn't just, sit;

it swirls, it churns

until ulcers come alive,

it climbs and pulls itself upward,

back in my mouth-

as though returning from

a pleasant detour.

bitter and black,

to everyone's disgust, i spit. - a sweet aftertaste.

---

-samjam

frankly i don't like this poem. but when i have a poem in my drafts for too long, i see that it blocks too much of my mental space. it needs to go. and, uh might as well. toods, my dudes.