I'm Telling the Truth, but I'm Lying

Imagine you don’t fit anywhere, not even in your own head.

He needs someone. Someone who will stay. Someone who is the opposite of me. White like him. Someone his mother would like. Someone kinder. Someone not broken. Someone not mean.

try to remember the last time I felt like a person who could be touched and loved.

The way I am mercury spilling over surfaces—solid and liquid, here and not. When you carry fear and disaster in your mouth, you taste it constantly like it’s the only thing your tongue has ever known.

MY PARENTS DIDN’T ENCOURAGE lies in the ways most parents do. There were never any Santa or Easter Bunny betrayals, no tooth fairies or “everything is going to be okay” reassurances. My parents were often too real. Still I learned to lie for them—to avoid punishments and to secure rewards by giving the answers I knew they wanted rather than the ones that were true.

“I didn’t do it.”

“I did do it.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I forgot.”

I learned to lie to save others. I did this for them. I am this lying, script-changing, rose-colored liar for them. At least that’s what I want to believe—that I do this for them—but honestly I lie to save myself.

She gave you the money to help you fix your credit, hoping that in exchange you would excuse the outbursts. Hoping it would offer a “worth-it.” Hoping you would offer her gratitude. Offer her love. Offer a reason. Offer her ownership. Money is a tie that binds. Money makes people stay.

Someone who loves you in ways you understand

My mother loves and hates and heals and hurts with the same hands.

Money is a tie that binds. Money makes people stay.