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Poison and Lies

You fed me.
You fed my soul.
You turned my head.
You twisted my heart.

You spoke such honeyed words
of futures and dreams and forever
with all the sincerity of a true love.
And yet it was all a ruse.
You had cultivated your ability to deceive
For years
and years
and years.

Your artistry is superb.

You use the same words
To the next woman.

“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“If we can make it through this, we can make it through anything.”
“Never before, never again.”
“I’ll never hurt you again.”

By now, you are lying to the next woman –

The one after me –

About the current one –

The one after her –

Only she doesn’t know it yet.
Just like I didn’t.

“We’re only friends.”
“I’m not a man women want.”
“She needs someone to listen.”
“I’m not good at cheating.”
“I’m hanging with the boys tonight.”

You did some things well.
But lying and cheating  –
Those were your specialities.

You spoke the truth only once that I can be sure of.
That last night,
When you said:
I know how to make people love me so they will give me what I want.

What kind of a man lives like that?
A man who blames everyone else for his own failings
While bemoaning the loss of his honor.

Not a man I want in my life.

I do not wish you happiness.
No.
I wish you the poison
And lies that you fed me.

A Perfect Plot

Her designs were
                intricately subtle
And oozed
                an innocuous innocence
As she lay
                a patient snake
                in secret garters
Awaiting her so-well-cultivated prey.

She flickered at the
                raw edges of his
                                trampled consciousness,
Flitting forked tongue
                and rattled tail
                                in and out
                                oh so gently
Casting herself
                as
the betrayed angel with the broken wing.

Yes,
Once she set her slit-eyed sights
                on him
She wove
and spun
                in shameless
                patient
                sweetness
Until it seemed to him
                a refuge
                                a rescue

Her sympathetic syllables
                laced with the merest touch
                                of undetectable
                                                strychnine
made him doubt
                his soul-full
                                feelings.

Poor man,
Deceived by honeyed
                insincere
                                independence
Blinded by sleek
                silvery
                strands of
                artfully crafted
                artifice
Until it is too late
                for him.

June 2019
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