Learning How to Tell a Lie
My body rejects untruth like an unwanted graft.
When I try writing: he pushed me down a hill
while I wore 4-inch heels and laughed when
I rolled my ankle, I become a haunted house,
full of lies tucked behind the horror—because
that isn’t quite what happened. He did not laugh.
He wept, put his face in his hands and said:
Why would I do that? I am so sorry.
I don’t know why I did that over
and over until I comforted him, winced off the pain.
All I have is honesty, or at least,
what feels the most like honesty. So I call his
abuse what it really is, an apology. I convince myself.
I convince myself. I convince myself.
Taylor Franson Thiel is a writer from Utah, now based in Fairfax, Virginia. She received her Master’s in creative writing from Utah State University and is pursuing an MFA at George Mason University. Her writing frequently centers on playing as a Division One basketball player, the body, and mental health. Along with writing, she enjoys lifting heavy weights and reading fantastic books. You can find her on twitter @TaylorFranson