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...