By: Abigail Beene
I remember on that brisk summer night.
The one where we talked about lies and lying?
The one where we lied.
You told me that once, six years ago, you broke your mother’s favorite vase.
You said it was beautiful and blue
Like my eyes, you told me.
You went on about how when your mom asked you, you pretended not to have a clue.
And I asked you “Have you ever lied to me” and you said “No. Not even pure white lie.” And I smirked and said “There are no white lies. One lie is just as bad as any other” and you laughed. And I pretended to laugh.
Then you asked me “Have you ever lied to me?” And my face burned and I looked away, but you knew.
I knew you could tell that I had lied (and I had lied a few times) and then you asked when.
Metaphorically I was drowning in the pressure that was filling my lungs like water and burning my lungs like smoke as I tried to decide what I was going to tell you.
Instantly I thought of all the times you texted me asking if I was okay and I frantically typed “I’m fine” with rivers flowing down my face, making sure to include a silly emoji so you knew what I had said was “true”.
I thought of all the times I talked about the future when I didn’t think I would make it that far. Which in a way is kind of a lie. I think.
You repeated yourself after minutes had gone by bringing me back to reality. I plastered on a smile, looked at you
“Just White Lies.”
About The Author:
I am 15 years old and I live in Georgia. I've always had a knack for writing but I never thought I was talented or anything like that. Last semester I took Journalism at school and as an assignment we had to write some sort of poem or short story for a writing competition. I wasn't even going to do it so I began to draw. I drew a tattered and torn up heart and suddenly I was scribbling down words about how chaotic my heart can be. The finished product was a poem. I ended up turning that poem in. It was good. The way my teacher read it and gave it back to me with tears in her eyes told me that. I reread it over and over trying to figure out where it had come from because surely, I couldn't do that. Yet, I did. Something inside of me just took over and I had created something that someone liked. The best part of the whole ordeal was that I had found an escape. When I write I don't feel anything. I don't hear the world. I’m not stressed. When I write I drown all of my worries in ink. That's why I write.