Second-Guessing

You said I was exaggerating and my hand

went to my pocket like I could pull out proof,

some receipt, some photograph, something

that would make the story true again.

But the story got smaller in that pause,

the moment your eyes narrowed and you shook

your head the way you do when someone's

being dramatic. And now I'm not sure

if I was there the way I thought I was there,

if the thing I saw was the thing I saw,

if my memory is mine or if it's just

something I've been telling myself

until I believed it. Your disbelief

spread like a stain. Now when I think back,

I see it through your eyes: me, making it up,

me, taking something small and inflating it,

me, being the kind of person who needs

things to be bigger than they are.

And the worst part is I can't remember

the original thing anymore. I can only

remember you not believing it. I can only

remember the thing as you saw it: a lie

I didn't know I was telling.