The story bleeds at the edges

Like skin cut from the upper arm, no matter how carefully

a crust of wet life remains

It lies to you

(I lie to you)

A lie of kindness that bleeds at the edges

“Long ago, there was an age when magic lived,

and we took tea among the stars

And there were happy people, clever and brave

Wizards, and warriors

who stood united against unjust kings”

To lie well is a powerful thing,

The story rips itself from my upper arm,

forms bloody wings, paper wings, crusted with wet life—

(No, no, too literal, revise, refine, sharpen the wings until they slice the eyes like trembling throats)

And if the blood is fresh enough, perhaps,

My lie becomes not truth but something stranger, something of deeper import.

A transfusion, a part of you now, my blood in your veins, wet life

Memetic-stem-cell-immortality, my ego annihilated but my pattern repeating

into the background static of the human soul

“No matter how tender, how exquisite,

A lie will remain a lie.”

But ah, how beautiful our lies can be!

So open your eyes, open your ears

This will only hurt for a moment