When truth falls on your tongue, it falls

in bits and pieces, like eating small pieces

of it, one at a time, and it feels sweet on the
first bite so you blink at the another one to

grab and place it on your tongue only to

find this one a little sour, equally sweet,

but sour, and it also leaves back a stinging

sensation on your tongue like whispering a
slight warning of what may lie on the next

one, so I shoot a glance around me to check

no one’s looking and stretch my arm to pick

one more morsel of it and encase it in my

mouth and it feels slightly more different
than the previous ones for it tests my pain-

embracing power and proudly marches on

my tongue like it’s a battle ground meant to

be tested bullets at but I frown my eyebrows
and purse my lips to gulp it down in one go,

and then I hang my tongue out to linger in

some air to heal the scars of a war militating
against my ability to gulp truth down, so

without hesitation I pick one more of its

pieces only to have it open fire on my tongue
tiptoeing in my nerves deliberating how

pinpointed needles being pierced on your

flesh  feels like,nand I close my eyes shut and

try to roll down the leftovers of deterioration

in my mouth down my throat to start sealing

plugs and leaks  that gashed open on my tongue

like bridges collapsed onto each other, and I

shove the plate away to not to let the pieces

crawl up to me later and tell me they changed,

for they can’t, and so I ran up to my mother to

tell her I tasted some truth today,

it tasted just like a pineapple.

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