Her mouth spouts lies; they exit as quick as the cotton candy that melts on her tongue. She was three when she learned to play pretend: pretend to be a princess, a queen, pretend that the world had fairies and one true prince charming. She was ten when she realized she can pretend in real life: pretend to be ok when her mom called her her chubby little angel, pretend that she wasn’t hurt when her friends laughed about the lice in her hair and instead, she laughed along with them. She was twelve when she learned it was ok to lie: it was ok to tell her teachers she wasn’t feeling well so she could go home early; it was ok to tell her parents she was going to study at a friend’s house. (Those were half lies: she did go to her friend’s house, but they weren’t studying.) She was sixteen when she began lying to herself and nineteen when she realized she was ok with it. She met prince charming at twenty-three and thought she understood what everyone meant when they said love conquers all yet that was a lie too. Like dripping honey, her lies oozes out and sticks everywhere and the roaches comes out to feast faster than she can clean it out. At thirty-nine now, she’s the owner of a silver plated tongue that polishes itself.