The Truth, Like Me, Is A Half-Baked Thing

So: she grins at me
so: when was the last time you
told the truth?
It is not a grin like any
I have ever wore.
When I'm mean I grow
quieter and quieter
until I might as well not
be in the room at all.
I sit forward in my chair.
She's not looking at me
she's toying with the stained wood
the sole span of our
twinned silences.
The sun is pouring in onto
my face and maybe it's the whiskey
but I can't very well seem to
remember at all. Not a bit.

She doesn't usually sit there
she prefers dancing around my neurons
my memories my humour  
in concentric circles,
smaller and smaller
like a centrifuge
sucking all the air out from my lungs.
She glances up at me again
(she grins still).
Her eyes are a woman
drowning angrily,
snatching at her last gasp.
I shift in my seat.
I'm slaughtering time here.
I'm raping seconds and
ravaging their corpses.
I turn my face again to the sun
and it's almost funny:
I can't remember a thing.

Reviews

[Tina]

A poetic masterpiece!! Brilliant choice of words, with a powerful message.

[itsnoteoin]

thank you. your words are humbling. :)