How to Lie

I watched you tell him you'd handle it,

that the deadline was your mistake, and I saw

your jaw lock for half a second before

the words came out smooth as a practiced thing.

I recognized that moment. I was sixteen

when my mother asked where her necklace went.

I said I didn't know. I lied so the truth

wouldn't hurt her the way it would have.

The lie sat on my tongue like something swallowed wrong,

and I became the kind of person

who carries another's failure in their mouth

and calls it protection, calls it love.

Your coworker forgot. You both knew.

But you took the weight anyway.

That half-second of your jaw—I felt it

happen to my own face years ago.

I'm angry now. Not at you.

At how easy it was to see myself,

at how the lie becomes a skill becomes a scar

becomes the person you have to be.