These are never true: the claims of crimes we would never complete. We are less/more than that. Incapable of the self-awareness that would allow false statements to dissolve. Look at all the convolutions of the brain. Economy of surface area. Accordioned and twisted. Like everything contained within. The deep, laughterless hilarity of a cosmic joke.
So when I say I would never, I don’t ever, the smug horror is evident. The mirror of language distorts my waist wide and my face tall. The hypocrisy is both conscionable and inevitable. This silence, within which I bide and abide, is a form of delusion. I wait for my turn to speak, knowing I will never hear above the bluster of voice curving across the continents.