Or Else

by Joe Hart

Knowing a secret was good. At least I’d always seen it that way. A secret was safety. A secret was trust.

But I like to think things have a way of working out, a natural order sometimes disguised as chaos.

Words are funny things. They’re warped mirrors of what we mean, and only once in a while do they reflect the truth.

Only in America could you be crushed by the wheel of medical expense before the disease being treated actually killed you.

It’s funny the things you remember and what you forget. All of it’s important, every last second.

We wish our loved ones long lives and quick deaths. It’s what separates us from animals.

You lie to the ones you love sometimes. You lie because you love them. You lie to yourself.