Guile

I crinkle my nose.
I reserved judgment for a time well before we met.
I already know how this moment tastes in my mouth,
as I’ve imagined it before.
Smooth, coy, alternative, messy and perhaps musky.
And I already know I don’t like the way his smile curls,
Just so, almost friendly but a pinch too suave.
I pressed my tongue against my teeth, gritted,
raise my voice half an octave, and give false charity to a face.
It’s already happened in my mind, in slow motion,
although now it passes before I notice it happening.
There is no time for new analysis, no time for decisions renewed;
they have been made, and they are enough.
A compliment flies past my ear, I pretend bashfulness:
It’s not my first time riding Humbleness at the rodeo.
A falsetto laugh, a wrinkled nose, toothy grin aside,
I am a viper in deception.
I mimicked not knowing anything about him,
spoke as though I’d never heard a malicious thing he’d done,
touched his arm earnestly as though we were long lost friends,
and in my mind I vomited the counterfeit bile my body
longed to release into the dishonest void,
cleansing me of this disparate attitude
and healing a forked tongue.

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