I’ll turn myself inside and out

my flash, my bones

I’ll filter the blood

and exchange my love

for something that I can hold

I’ll look in my veins

I’ll push out the nerves

mix my senses and lose my voice

I’ll brush off the sweat

and dip in my skin

fingertips touching the swollen cells

I’ll turn myself inside and out

I’ll rage a storm

turning my flawed core_ into a song

a play pretend_ that I am able

that I am sane

so when you will look at me

at my upsidedown meaning

at my unbroken words

at my fake flesh

you’ll think there’s nothing wrong

that this is how I am

.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oksHjuqzsi4

I’ve never been able to give a full account of the lies that surround me. Then again, I AM one.

I’ve always been told that my mother died when I was four. I was always told that my father has never been found. That’s the explanation I was told as to why I was left with my uncle more than a decade ago.

But of course, none of this was true.

I figured it all out when I had snuck into my uncle’s office. It was past my bedtime, way past. But I hadn't ever been caught before, so why would I be caught now?

I crept down the stairs, stepping carefully on the boards I knew wouldn’t creak. I always skipped the third stair from the bottom because it always creaked, no matter where you stepped. I landed on the soft red carpet that kept the house warm at night. I could walk freely now, it would muffle my footsteps.

I made my way down a few corridors and made it to the imposing door. It stood seven feet tall and I was a full two heads shorter. Bold black letters on the bubbly glass read;

OFFICE OF GERALD HENRY:

COPYRIGHT EDITOR

They were just at my eye level and seemed darker than ever before. But Uncle Ger was asleep, I had made sure to check on him before I had crept down here. Breather on his face and whirring noisily.

I pushed in the key I had taken off of his dresser, turned it, and opened the door silently. I slipped in and closed the door behind me. I sat in Uncle’s big plush armchair and opened the drawer I knew the manilla folder was in. I took the folder out with trembling hands and read the title, my breath caught in my throat.

Marilyn Karleen Hawthorne III

Secrets

Addressed to her brother on Oct. 5

10 years ago

Marilyn Karleen Hawthorne III was my mother. I opened the folder and read everything inside.

I had only began wondering about my parents when my uncle had started talking as if my mother was still alive. Saying things like, “Marilyn knows” or “Marilyn is” and things like that. In present tense rather than past. He had also been drinking more and more.

Something didn’t connect quite right. I needed to investigate.

I had seen him consulting the folder from time to time. I didn’t care what it was, until I had taken a look at it’s cover, and seen my mother’s name written there. Then I needed to take a longer look.

When I finished reading, I took a minute and sat there, soaking it all in. My mother was very much alive, my father was known and alive. I held up a picture of them in each other’s arms. I could see my face in each of theirs.

As I held the picture up, the light filtered through it and words seemed to appear.

This is for Elizabeth. I want her to know the truth.

Please tell her our story.

I flipped the card over, but the writing was backwards on this side. It was in my mother’s neat handwriting. There was a heart scrawled under the words and I knew that it wasn’t my mother’s hand that had drawn it. In a flash, I realized it must be my father’s drawing.

I slipped the picture in a pocket, put everything back and locked the door behind me. I climbed into my bed and looked at the picture until I fell asleep.

It’s been years since I found out that my mother is a spy. Since I learned that my father is also a spy. Since I found them, and joined them. Years since I became a spy myself. There have been lies surrounding me since I was little. There are still lies surrounding me, and there will be for a long time.

Then again, I could be lying. That would make me a liar too.

But what about you? Are YOU a liar?

Turn right

where the road branches.

Drive

until the pavement turns to dust.

Find the trail

and step lightly.

Walk to the creek

for a drink of water.

Battle the hill.

Battle the silence.

Meander

among the wild roses and lillies.

When you get to the place,

tell me what you find there.

Tell me if you find grace.

Sometimes it feels like

I’m scaling the walls of a prison tower towards a tiny barred off window,

so that I can take a peek, just a peek,

at reality without the filter of my ego.

To get a glimpse of the world

without that thick, opaque glass

that ego encases us in,

is the true meaning of perception,

and the yearning for it,

is an illness.