liar’s job

By Tess Nealon Raskin

A self-reflective, nearly-narcissistic poem about being a writer.

it’s to catch flies with honey, not vinegar.
pull the sweet out of the bitter and package 
deepset ache in brown-paper boxes
To sell. it’s to lie for the pillow-feather sugar
of words and the
Currency of clouded eyes and little smiles.
it’s a liar’s job, you know. to martyr the dead
ants in the bathtub instead of cleaning them
up 
to feel their sticky limbs cling to your body as
they swirl around your feet
it’s a mortician’s job, or a necromancer’s.
priestesses and priests of small death alike
cut off their own heads
and watch themselves in the mirror. 
it’s a farmer’s job, or a pest’s. watching the
apples ripen 
Red in the sun until they fall to the ground 
and open themselves to the salty earth
and their sweet insides.
but most won’t let them fall, for the sake of a 
bite 
because above all,
it is a liar’s job.

Process

I wrote this poem during a time when I was writing constantly—at least once a day. At that time, I was beginning to develop a love for writing while realizing the effect my words could have on other people. Though my writing came from a place of true emotion, I felt like a con artist when I saw people be moved by my poetry. I loved when people loved my writing, but I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I rediscovered this poem later when archiving and organizing tons of discarded work, and the emotion of it continued to resonate with me deeply. Upon sharing it, I feel the same strange guilt I feel when I read it.