“Be true to yourself,” the saying urges,
A pearl of wisdom.
On the surface, profound in its simplicity,
leaving the lips like the ocean lapping over a shell -
over - and over - and over
Until the ridges are worn smooth
and the contents have washed away.

I hold it up to my ear and hear the hollow words whispered back to me,
but it doesn’t tell me what “myself” is
or how to “be true” to it.
It just echoes like the tired ripples of waves that wash up on the shore
only to be dragged back out to the depths.

I try to utter the phrase to taste the words myself
But the salty platitude only burns my lips.
Palatable, perhaps, for those who don't thirst for more but
I'm fucking parched.

Too poor for pearls,
I gather rocks instead,
Hard truths that cut me as I stumble over them.
I wear the rocks like armor, pushing forward,
And grinding pearls to dust beneath my feet.