Part of the truth was sliced from my mouth, cut like meat and hanging in the air. I gazed at it, fingered it lightly textured in indifference, calling it sly: slippery like a woman, so cunning. He must have meant to eat it taking his knives to my reality crafted from desperate thoughts. He thought me somewhat mad, a kind of rarity one treasures "She's got spark" But it wears off like a whore's promise. I gave truth a name, a glittering status of what he wanted to hear. What I meant to say was I shot him dead, there on the spot and the truth was fucked.