Plain Vanilla

Should I lie. Say I'm someone else? Maybe, in fact, I am. That lie the mirror tells again and again. That stranger in the tattered nightgown that the sheets always try to, but never can undress. Blunt abortions of touch spilling from bent fingers.

No offspring. No legacy other than moments hijacked by barren others. Not there at all unless I can open those wounds they've yet to discover.

I will lie. Say I'm someone I've never been. Like every princess in every fairy tale has done. Folded herself into the tiny glass slippers in the hands of their so called princes.

I will lie. Because truth is a terrible friend. It's not a lie if I become it. It's not too late if I still know what I'm not.

The embryos are like a tornado. Missing faces everywhere. Liars hold up their stop signs, but I keep moving.

Pretending I'm going somewhere.