Liar

Not fooling anyone.

You say you're a writer.
That your heart pumps ink
and jerks tears, belly full
of plot holes,
adverbs wedged tightly
between your toes.

Peeling back the pages, I find
paper mâché bones;
Pale and hollow, too fragile
to support
life.

When was the last time you
howled at the moon
with excitement?

The last time you forgot to
breathe
because of a single
well-placed word?

Not since chapter four:
The earthquake on Olive Dr.
when the main character
didn't make it out.

A moment of silence
turned decades.

You know the twist
at the end. It's written in
cobwebs, clinging to the past
for dear life
amidst the bold letters
and cursive spaces.

I don't believe you.