She was an artist.
Picasso had painting.
Poe had his writing.
Dickinson had poetry.
She had lying,
and her masterpiece
was a love story.
It was the story of us.
It went like this:
Once upon a time,
(This is how the best
lies always begin.)
there was a lovely girl
without a name, and
one day she met another
lovely girl without a name.
And together they were
lovely—no, they were more
than lovely, they were
happy. They were in
love. Everything was
absolutely magical.
And the frogs got along
with the toads. And the
witches stayed in their
fortresses. And the princes
stayed in their castles.
And the nameless girls
lived happily ever after.
The end.
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