inside the lie
was a beautiful truth
that grew a white beard
and a giant belly
and though it preferred
to go barefoot
it stepped into shiny black boots
and moved north—
so far north that no one
could find it—
and buried itself
in snow and surrounded
itself with elves and candy
and increasingly elaborate stories,
stories so lovely that for a while
the lie began to believe itself,
until one day
a girl walked right up to it
and said to it,
Tell me the truth
and the snow melted
and the beard fell out
and the elves turned back
into evergreen trees
and the boots did their best
to erase their tracks,
and the truth stood there
naked and said,
There is so much joy
in giving,
and the girl cried
and cried,
longing for the lie.
I just want there to be real magic,
she said.
And the truth
held out its
beautiful hand
and said,
This, too, is magic.
It was years
before the girl
could listen.