The Lying Game

Little girls are drawing the word "Loveliness" Up and down the sides of their faces But I rather doubt they've even met the poor old thing. I went to visit her the other day In the old folks home for forgotten faeries. She can't speak anymore But her eyes still twinkle just as gloriously as ever. I shut off the soap opera on her television And knelt beside her bed. She held out her shaking hand And I clasped mine around her fragile little fingers. I reassured her that we hadn't all forgotten about her And that she still did exist in some things But I think she knew deep down That I was full of shit. I didn't want to lie to her Any more than she wanted to be lied to But I live in a lying world Where even the sweetest and most simplest truths Are still twice baked in convectional ovens of farce-filled fantasy. I reached into my backpack And pulled out a daisy-chain-necklace. She smiled and leaned her head forward So I could wrap it around her neck. She picked up a pad of paper that she keeps on her bedside table And wrote, "Thank you sweetie, they smell lovely!" In large cursive letters. I hugged her and told her that she was very welcome And I stood up to take my leave. I cracked her window open And paused in the doorway to blow her a kiss. As I proceeded towards the exit, Unnoticeably small tears dribbled down the sides of my cheeks. It wasn't because I knew that the cancer Was determined to eat through to her vital organs any day now... It was because I had spent that entire morning Super-gluing yellow, white and green construction paper together Because real daisies don't exist anymore.