A Liar's Confessions by Pravartika Wankhede (16, India)*

I believe in lies. They are: aconitum, blue like my hair, creeping into my words; oleander, an innocent pink, slithering from under my tongue; dark purple belladonna flourishing in my promises. Poison blooms, all of them. 
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A whiff of apricots. Delicate flowers poised on the poison bush. Vibrant blossoms in palms, and passing by chapped lips. 
It happens suddenly- at once. A gag reflex, last lunch passing by flushed lips. Air disappears, vanishes into thin-   
Death.

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But belladonna, the beautiful damsel lies; so do aconitum and oleander. They are medical miracles, hoodwinking healers, mischievous menders. Lies, perpetrate my life, run berserk through all sense of reality, and I let them. For how else can I survive in incomprehensible multiverses? Escapism is better than nihilism, and damnation is better than destruction.

So watch me, as the limelight flashes upon me and I sashay forward with the spring in my step, I strut and saunter, the swagger mesmerizes you. You believe my lies and I thank my fortunes that I am a half-decent actor- a star soubrette. The ink in my plastic pen flows and it glides past decked in sequins and diamonds and I bask in the glory of your admiration- for a person I am not. Admit it, please, for I hate liars-that you seek an escape.  ​