I’m sorry I never told you I was voted Best Liar
for four years running since second grade,
or at least until Posey McLaren fibbed about
her rooftop swimming pool a hundred feet deep.
Imagine that. Instead of challenging Posey,
I spent my weekends carving untruths out of
ouija boards, engraving mottoes onto mirrors,
and spinning yarns. I got so good my mother
believed I was the neighbor’s child, wandering
into the kitchen for a cookie after lunch, and
staying for dinner because the rest of the family
was in Wales. She never missed the actual me.
I got so good I convinced the sidewalk it was
a waterbed, into which I plunged when I fell
from the thirty-storey building of your grace.
It must have been my mockingbird talent, my
chameleon tongue. Could it have been my proposal
for friendly rap battles, where the fighters compliment
each other instead? Could it have been that story I told
you, as we lay like naked pick-up sticks in the hands
of the unskilled, about how I was voted Best Liar
in second grade, and that I won it four years running?


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