I. The Lie.

She said
The ugliest things become beautiful on my lips
She said
My whole body is a mouth
I think it’s because I was truthful
I think it’s because I was useful
She
Did not exist
But if she did, I would have tried to sell her myself
As a customizable pre-packaged parcel
Or some precious antique lost
To be discovered, under-priced, buried deep in that section of the second hand store that everyone ignores
Because god forbid you be seen shopping
For used underwear
But she would be discreet
And I would be a surprise
She would think
That I was some great gift of serendipity
That she’d always been looking for something just like me
Not knowing that her prize was just one thing stolen
From an entire house of antiques
A house so ******* full of things that it will never feel complete
A house where the potential buyer can never stand in doorways
For fear of what they might see
Where every room is replete with a full set of furnishings to give her the illusion that she might
Love me

II

I am a different person for everyone that I meet
And again on each day of the week
My love history is a researcher’s notebook, documenting anomalies
There is only one theme
I’ve always fallen for those people with faces that always seem smiling
I've gone about it quietly
Because, secretly, I’ve always felt that that they were better than me
I think it’s because they look like they know something I don’t
It makes me love them
It makes me forget how to speak, how to be
Any functional version of myself around them
Let alone create the perfect version
That might make them fall in love with me

III

But I have been loved I think
I have sold myself well
And been loved well, one dimension at a time
By all the wrong ones
And still, it’s always a surprise
I don’t do well with surprise
So, with the excuse that I was unprepared for company, I only show them that room of my house
Which I feel they will appreciate
The one I won’t have to explain
A brief overview of an interview with past lovers would reveal
That I am a house of many changeable rooms divided by false walls
That I am as many different people
As I have been loved by
And that just when each had finally felt that they’d started to know me
I'd leave
They'd say that everywhere you go in me, I am always burning sagebrush
Trying to smoke myself clean

IV. The Truth.

I am too concerned with being known to be anything but in love with
Myself
Through the imaginary eyes of someone else
And I am greedy
I want to see and feel and be everything
But the truthful way of saying that is just
That I always feel I should be more than what I am
And it consumes me
Loving me would be lonely
I have one of those faces that always looks a little sad
A little mad
And I think
That there is too much of me that would have to be looked over, or forgiven, or explained
For anyone to know all of me, it’s
Too much to ask
I make excuses like, who would want to do all that?
But really, I’m just too scared to trust anyone with the task
Of piecing together my smile, or loving the lines on my hands,
Or forgiving me
For all the things that I am
Or think that I
Should be