i bet no one ever told you
that poets are liars.

they are gifted with the curse
of spinning tragedies into fairytales,
like straw into gold.

because before blood was beautiful,
it was brutal.

it was the animal desire to survive,
scarlet rusted on wolf fangs,
a deadly tapestry dyed on fur.

because before hunger was attractive,
it was abuse.

it was a half-dead city rat
with bones like blades,
starving under a starless sky.

because before addiction was normal,
it was neglect.

it was broken bottles and cigarette stubs,
craving and carving,
thoughts like curdled milk rotting inside a skeleton.

because before mental health became a competition
pain was not coveted.

what poets do not tell you
is ars longa, vita brevis:
art is long, life is short.