What is a lie if not a premature truth?

Violet petals, crushed,

and mixed with dye.

diluted. disapproving.

the aroma is faint

but I succumb to its lull.

disarmed by a mere fragrance—

where are my defenses?

disillusioned and disarmed,

I’m weak aren’t it? 

I’ve given myself epithets 

that would put the Greeks to shame.

Great. Kind. Brave.

Or are these titles 

testaments to my delusion?

But what are delusions if not 

fairy tales we tell ourself to 

keep us from drowning?

What is a lie if not a premature truth?

If I speak it into the universe,

how can I confidently say it won’t come true?