I forget how much I like

the unapologetic feeling

of spilling my secrets

to strangers

(stoic saints)

their strony eyes gazing

with severe concentration,

exquisitely placated gazes

over their glazed faces

I lend to them expertly,

pouring readily in to open cups

that tip over to me readily

it is effortless to fill them

saying that I’d rather be free

showing them a twisted smile

tellling them something wicked

lying to them about anything

showing no sign of stopping

If my intent is puzzling

I know I did the right thing

though it may not be a kind thing,

revealing too much protects me.

So

when an aching truth is spoken

(tell them you’re letting him go)

my words will seem like nothing

but are all the more convincing