once you asked me if the story i wrote was true
i laughed to myself at the thought of explaining
truth and lies
when they are so close in my world
and to tell you that every word i speak is a metaphor
that i pray at night for people to unpack
my words, and read in between the lines
to the truths i dare not tell
to the words caught in my throat
i always felt like i had eaten saltines without water
when i was around you, but my breath was believable
enough for you to think i was getting enough air
as my fingers turned cyanotic
you gazed into my eyes, yours.
as i stuck my head under the sink
someday you might ask me if this is true
i'll leave you with this
i never eat saltines without water