Let’s Talk

Let’s talk, you say and I hide my smile.
Let’s talk? I think, covering my amusement.
Do you know what you’ve done?
Do you know the Pandora’s Box you’ve opened?
Let’s talk.
Oh yes, let’s.
You apparently are not aware of my manipulating nature,
You are not aware of my way with words
You are not aware of my subtle twist and turns
You are not aware that as words continue to flow out of my mouth in verbal ***** dressed up as the Mona Lisa Smile
The fault is now yours.
Do you know?
I was a lawyer in my past life.
I won every case I had.
Let’s talk you say and I try not to laugh
Because honesty is your best policy, but honesty has no place here
And I have no policy at all.
Really though, you never had a chance.
No, not against me, the liar’s poet Laureate.
Let’s talk.
And suddenly I hear the inflection in those words, the meaning buried beneath the underneath that I can’t quite catch.
I hear what you won’t say (what you have said)
“Lies tell more truth than the truth ever could.”
And if that’s the case then I’ve just told you everything you could have ever wanted to know
But all you’ve said is the truth and so far it’s shown me nothing I wasn’t already aware of.
Now I like to think I’m intuitive, that I read people like books
But your pages are closed to me, yet you speak no wrong.
My loop-t-loop monologue that not even I could understand anymore has come to an end.
Let’s talk.
I’m not smiling anymore because my pretend story of falling down stairs and walking into rails has turned to ash in my mouth
I slowly cover the bruises on my arms when I realize that you know
And that my lies have painted a picture that to everyone else was a jumbled mess.
But to you,
But to you it was as clear as day and you saw right through it.
Let’s talk.
Yes, please. Please. Let’s talk.

You say you've got it all figured out,
got the science down at age nine-teen.
I roll my eyes, because that's just silly.
I'm older than you by a year at least,
but regardless, I watch you hitch your
skirt up and strap your heels on before
leaving the house. You think I'm crazy
to stay around only to meander about
in my fuzzy socks and stained sweatshirt.

I'll have you know that I actually quite
enjoy my one-women tea parties with
Ms. Austin and the Bronte girls on a
Friday night. At least I won't get a head
ache from strobe-lights and my utter
confusion when it comes to pretty-looking
cocktails. I realize I probably won't be
seeing you until midmorning anyway
when you stumble rather impressively
into the kitchens still in your club clothes.

You'll make a disgusted noise at my
pillow fort, my coloring books, my
towering stack of certifiable Disney
DVDS and I will pretend not to notice
that you smell like stale sweat, alcohol,
and aftershave.

You will feel compelled to tell me all
about him, all about them, all about all
of last night--down to the last disturbing
detail--and I will burry my face in my cereal
so you can't see the faces I'm making.

Undoubtedly you are bragging
(or so you think), but really, I'd rather
not have had so-and-so pawing at me
all night, because neither you nor I
know where he's been, and I personally
find no appeal in waking up in someone
else's unfamiliar room because my comforter
is super soft and fluffy and I feel like a
princess when I go to bed all clean
and cute in my PJs. This way I can get up
whenever I want and take a shower and
be loud and not have to put the seat up
when I *** or quietly try and find my way
out of someone else's home.

Also, I'm lazy most of the time so
I definitely wouldn't like the walk
home so early in the day. I have to say
that I much prefer my crayons to your
aspirin, my forts to your mysterious
bathrooms, my imaginary sword fights
to your hike home. Most importantly,
I like waking up regretting nothing the
previous the night except that I didn't
get to watch all of Mulan and what her
reflection really shows.