Not Knowing

Truth is terse.

Truth is monosyllabic.

Spoken,

truth begins in the front of the mouth,

escaping through pursed lips.

Attacking, truth seeps beneath skin.

Emerging, truth rises above it

in flushed cheeks and shortened breaths.

Truths transposed

twisted like fallen girders

cannot sustain my weight.

But truths impaled

piercing and infinite

threaten to destroy all I know

and all I am comfortable not knowing.

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