The Lies My Mind Tells

 

My subconscious whispers slick,

Soft-tongued lies in the midnight quiet.

“You can do it tomorrow,” she states matter-of-factly,

As if delay was a friend,

Not a thief dressed in comfort.

She tells me I’m not good enough,

That my reflection must ask permission to rise.

That I need to do more, be more,

See more, have more,

As if my being was not already a whole sermon.

But I know her tricks now.

I know she learned that voice from the world,

From history's heavy hands,

Pressing against the mouths of my mothers.

So I sit her down,

Pour her a cup of truth,

And remind her:

We are not our limitations.

We are divine disruptions

In the story they tried to write for us.

We are tomorrow, today,

And always enough.