She did not know truth,
never sought truth.
It was clear she found truth awkward,
an inconvenience.

And truth responded in kind,
had chosen not to stand with her.
In fact truth hid from her
and well, she simply wasn’t
interested in truth.

So that was that.
This was a comfortable choice.
She would always look
in another direction
to avoid truth.

It was one of the few things
she did well.
She despised truth,
tied it into into knots,
twisting it until it cut
into her hands,
producing wounds that yielded
no blood, only lies.

She boldly buried
the untruths, those lies
and one-sided compromises.

She treasured these lies,
clung to her untruths
as though gasping for air.
Creating untruths was the only way
she could see her shadows
or claim her victories.

 

Janet Cormier is a painter, writes prose and poetry, and performs comedy. JC prefers different and original over pretty. She loves collecting stuff, but cleaning not so much. Janet also talks to strangers. A lot. Her column appears weekly on Oddball Magazine.