Truth is supposed to be what's real,
the highlighted line of solid YES amongst the mess
of images of women I've never met,
lines I've never heard spoken in a fluorescent lit cafeteria,
nor heard uttered by any other hungry diner.
I want to outline my ideals in a bold black felt tip marker,
because I don't know what they are after every daring admittance of mine.
My hands were steady, as they are every time the fleshy beast reaches its
taloned claw out my drawn open rosey lips.
I take it as a sign of truth, that steadiness.
I pried open my own mouth and let it all slide out, every indiscretion
as I saw the disappointment land on my sister's face,
as she saw the family tree sprouting another bulb ripe with carnal-centricity;
I love everyone, and everything a little too much for her taste.