I'm a professional liar.
I know them like the freckles
on my arms and your dissonant,
holy stare. White lies slide,
discreet, into hungry pockets.
Self-preserving lies choke
in the spaces between us.
My heart distends with
luster. I am your theatric
little bean. I sit on my
hands and cower behind
mascara fringe. I eat air
with a decadent melancholy.
I took a taxi all the way
to the end of the world
just to ask why. Don't
believe me this morning.
Call the doctor instead.
I harbor what you
hunt and dread. Leave
here with my cunt
and put it on a chain
so everybody knows,
everybody knows you have
a liar's cunt slapping
with a dulcet tone
off of your iconoclast chest.
If we believed in God
we would send aristocratic
pleas to the stars
but we don't so you leave
and I play with the cavity
between my legs and we
burn every felony.
We deny how the trees
skinned leaves around
our feet and our eyes
took down power lines.
Don't worry, mine;
I can supply.
Dawn West (b. 1987) is a sure thing with an affinity for dresses. An Ohio native, her work has appeared in Four and Twenty, Nanoism, and Fiction at Work.
Archived at http://www.girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/poetry/42-poetry/212-dw-0510-pro and shortlinked at http://frsh.in/b3
