What Does A Lie Taste Like?

people think lies taste metallic because they have only ever licked them from knives. they have never eaten one properly.

a well-made lie is served warm.

it arrives in a bowl your mother insists you finish before it gets cold. the steam carries tiny white birds into the kitchen. they settle on the windowsill, folding and unfolding themselves, repeating you'll understand when you're older until the sentence becomes impossible to separate from the smell of ginger. by then, it has already dissolved into the broth.

every household raises a different species of lie.

some keep theirs beneath the floorboards where it grows roots and quietly drinks rainwater. some stitch theirs into quilts, believing the body sleeps more peacefully beneath a blanket that cannot tell the truth. somewhere, a family hangs theirs on the clothesline every sunday. by monday morning, it has dried into something that almost resembles forgiveness.

ours lived in the soup pot.

it floated between carrot slices and coriander, pretending to be nourishment until we loved it enough to swallow. my mother stirred the broth clockwise because that is how her mother taught her. if you listened carefully, you could hear all the women before them knocking gently against the sides of the saucepan, asking to be let in.

no one tells you the tongue is terribly sentimental.

it remembers every flavour it has ever forgiven. mine still mistakes cinnamon for apologies. honey tastes exactly like promises made in kitchens after midnight. burnt milk reminds it of the evenings my father smiled with his eyes closed, as though happiness were a room he had misplaced the key to.

there are entire orchards where excuses grow instead of fruit.

children are forbidden from climbing the trees because the branches bend low enough to whisper it's not your fault before anyone has decided whose fault it is. in autumn, the lies become heavy and fall on their own. they bruise easily. that's why adults carry them so carefully.

sometimes i think honesty is the stranger thing.

i have seen lies hatch from teacups, molt beneath winter coats, migrate in the hollow bones of swallows. i have watched them curl beside sleeping children like faithful dogs. i have watched them outlive the mouths that first spoke them.

honesty has always arrived shivering.

it stands barefoot on the doorstep, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat, holding a bouquet of flowers that have forgotten their own names. nobody recognizes it immediately. someone always asks who it is.

the lie, meanwhile, has already taken off its shoes.

it knows where the bowls are kept.

it asks whether you've eaten.

it tastes exactly like the soup your mother makes when you're ill.

that is why people swallow it.