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(Oh, Katerina. The lies slip off of your tongue before you even open your mouth to speak.)

She huddles into her clothes and forgets who she's supposed to pretend to hide. The world is a jumble of two things that have blurred at the edges and bounced back again, mixed up in a kaleidoscope of impressions against her eyes. She has a contradiction to everything she ever thinks and says and does - but then she can find a justified reason for everything else afterwards.

"Where are you going?" her father asks.

"Out," she replies. (It's the first truth she's told in weeks.)

But what she's really hiding is her hair - half of it bleeding from her scalp, the other half scattered on the bathroom floor. She doesn't know why she had the impulse to cut it off, but this impulse felt right. The length reminded her of her mother, and it reminded her father too. Now barely brushing against her shoulders she smiles into the winter morning and a stranger asks her why. She says she got some good news that day lie to do with school another lie and that her name is Lola lie, lie, lie. The stranger passes and so does she, although like her shadow her own estranged self never leaves her. She is foreign in her own skin, trapped by bars constructed by the words in her past, a mask that does not quite fit. She herself is a lie, and she wonders if someday she'll dissolve into nothingness she has become - a figment, a thought - like her breath in the air.

And then she finds she is in fact solid (but for how long she'll never know) as she collides with reality, knocking a stranger to the ground. A hand shoots out to haul them up and her heart beats a thousand times per minute and all her actions tell that she cares but her words feel emptier than the sky above her.

"Oh," she states with sugar-coated concern. "I'm sorry."

Lie, lie, lie.

(Oh, Katerina. When will you ever stop?)