Liar

I don’t believe in what I write.

That fucking conviction
is a terrifying liar.

It doesn’t even have to try.

It says

look.

And I do.

It says

this happened.

And somewhere in the sentence
I start remembering it.

I can give a lie
such a convincing body
I forget I made it.

Because somewhere along the way
the words stop being mine.

They take me with them.

Suddenly
I am no longer the woman
who wrote the thing.

I am the woman
who believes it.