Tessellating Truth

 the creases are fickle as we force the folds. the patterns are obvious. it's their execution that confounds. 

we're mostly paper.

empty and easily torn. 

the lazy geometry of touch. stumbles over the arrogant algebra of confession.

we're mostly impossible.

quiet songs and unbalanced equations. extrapolating pleasure from the darker bruises. 

a series of tiny angles that callously make their shapes in us.

the structure is solved, but the paper has other plans. 

we're mostly stubborn.

gnawing on the ropes that we've used to hang ourselves. 

we're mostly thieves.

taking when no one's looking.

we're mostly human. 

an accumulation of little lies that over the years grow heavier than we can carry.