The Lie I Told

My friend confessed she'd lied for her brother,

and suddenly I was sixteen again,

standing in the principal's office with another

version of truth I'd made to defend

my best friend's theft—yes, she'd stolen it,

a sweater from the gym, a stupid sweater,

and when they asked, I couldn't hold it,

the lie came out smooth, like it was better

than the truth. Like her shame was worth

my steady voice, my steady eye.

Like I could steal her crime from the earth

by letting it live inside me as a lie.

She was never caught. She never knew

how much I carried. Never asked.

Just lived free while I stayed true

to a lie I'd made and never unmasked.

I watched her live without the weight,

and I kept the secret like a shrine.

I carried what she'd escaped,

I made her burden into mine.

My friend finished her confession.

I nodded. I said I understood.

I didn't tell her my transgression.

I carried it the way I always could.