When we tell ourselves to be honest,
how can we know what is true?
What if the judgement we've always known
is a foreign scent to a brother?
If the slip of the tongue
becomes the slip of the mind,
Is it still true
in your eyes?
Have I changed the memory?
My voice is a drip of toxic paint,
filling the white sliver
into a shade of silver
I will never be sure what I say is right,
and neither will you
and that is the only truth I know...
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