How to Lie

"If you don't have somethin' nice to say, don't say nuthin' at all," Thumper says in the movie Bambi. It's her first lesson in how to lie. More soon follow.

"Turn that frown upside-down."

"You're prettier when you smile."

"Why can't you just be normal?"

"Fake it 'til you make it."

It's not surprising that she doesn't know the difference between the truth and the mask. If she wears the mask long enough it adheres to her face and she becomes the mask. Or so she tells herself. She is beautiful, she is smart. She belongs in the world.

She lies, she lies, she lies.

She's built an entire home based on her lies. Carved out a hole and filled it with a foundation of lies of omission, lies of convenience, lies of protection. Tiny fibs fill in the cracks around large whoppers.

"I can do this."

"I love him."

"I don't mind."

"I'm a good person."

"It won't hurt."

Timber by timber, the carefully crafted lies stack neatly around the empty space of her identity. Held together by the glue of repetition, and the nails of society's expectations.

With purposefully revealed windows of truths, she pretends to let in the light, but the house is a void nothing can fill.

Her closet is full of masks, one for each occasion, for each group of friends. A special one for the family she has left, an angelic countenance that shows no trauma. She tells herself her pants on fire are really just the new hot pants.

In the garden, she tends to elaborate lies. Vines cultivated in the harsh sun and watered under the clouds of ominous positivity. The fruits of the vine feed her lies, and they grow bigger and bigger, and you don't even know what tree she was to begin with.

It's a pretty lie for sure. And I think if I could peel through each colorful, icy layer, I would find underneath a beating heart, warm and true. Surely I love her for all that she is. But that is a lie, because she is me, and this whole story is a lie. Maybe.