The pothos plant I hung three weeks ago above the entry table began growing more and bigger leaves. Soon they’d fall, covering the trinket dish, my keys, and coins, gesturing my linger abode. I haven’t had Chinese takeout since about six years old when I lived on Burnside next to the rat in the furnace guts waiting for gathered slumber and lights out. Jokes on her, my eyes closed, but my mind left on; wondering if she too picked off the colors from the cosmic brownies left on the counter. Chinese food: also had that one drunk night Camron pushed his fried wing into my mouth after having puked all over his car. His minty blue dodge convinced of wealth and class. He, by default, was smacked as well, wishing his hand held much more decent flesh. He slid his two front fingers up my left thigh. His hands were cold and hard, and dry. Looking, I could track the veins and ash running in his fingers into his backhand, up his arm and on my clit. From then on, I swore never to eat Chinese unless the Chinese ate me like he did. My first lie. 

She lied said if I got any time in the sun, I’d be the sweetest dark chocolate worthy of indulgence. With expected irritation to rise at reprise through food comparison, my mind retells a personal encounter with a more splendid palette at the will of her fingers. A smile in accordance with her pitiful attempt at a kind gesture proved suitable enough for static pestering. My face finds its way back towards the sky’s light, reminding me of prior contemplation. Squeezed my hands so tight, my nail tips pierced my palms in the usual indentations. Finding preferred settlement, I squeezed just a bit harder. I’ve always had quaint patience for pain. I know it needs time to wound me in the way it specifically does. Subtly, with notice of my rigidity. My knowledge as durable as my tolerance. The more I know the sweeter my blood pours out a glass for premium tasting. I mustn’t deny the dessert resemblance for long. My second lie. 

Hats on my momma's dresser reminded me of Sunday mornings. News on. Shoes on. Having my pick of perfumes and broches, lotions and fair blush for a lady the age of virtue. Rested, my eager nose at the atmosphere of “taste.” My choices were, of course, superb. Nothing less, nothing more. Flown to my head: a dainty, white, doily cloth. A stand in for the dames more elaborate adorners. A picture of purity, innocence, acceptance, if you will. Worn burgundy pews rested mine while a symphony gathered around me. Perhaps this was the conception of a need for silence. Overlong service with jerk chicken to wash it down. We don’t only wear perfume on Sundays, you know. My third lie.