by Sascha Cohen
Every liar has this one fantasy:
casually telling you over breakfast
one morning. Without looking up,
you’d laugh and say you already knew.
I’ve got two boyfriends,
one I always lie to, and the other
to whom I never tell the truth. I’ve got two
parents, one with whom I can’t
talk about money and the other
with whom I can’t talk about sex.
That’s why I’m like this, a self split
down the middle and each half
with her own differently pitched
voice. The higher it gets the bigger
the lie, like she’s sucked the rubber lips
of a helium balloon, soon only squeaks
instead of words, and then only
vapor. I’m only kidding, I actually
have three boyfriends who all
give me money and I don’t love
any of them. This way I don’t ask
anything of you, Mom and Dad.
I am Gloria Wandrous, slut of all time,
and it takes a village
of generous men to care for me.
The way you used to care for me.
But you knew that, right? Smile if so.
Laugh if so. Say this changes nothing
Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles.