The Con Artist

It was always there for me,
That faithful liar,
It was always loyal with candor,
But maybe a little too honest,
And it lied,
Erratically and aggressively,
But always lacking the intention,
The intention of hurting,
The boy, it told me to love him,
But because of that,
That treacherous betraying instance,
I don't listen to it anymore,
I seal my ears away from,
The fluttering,
And pattering of wings,
That knock the inside of my chest,
So fragile too fleeting,
I-cannot-love,
Anymore, because of the swindler,
Under my skin,
It told me to follow it,
That it would not lead me astray,
But when I did it left a path,
A path of red life seeping,
Out,
Down from between my thighs,
And I'd call that astray,
And it also came from the crack,
That paved its way across it too,
I grinned ruefully at it,
Knowing the thief had to hurt also,
But the joke is on me,
For it, the liar,
Is more than under my skin,
It is a part,
Of me,
So between my legs throb,
And that cheat thumps too,
Then I scour and I scrub the red life,
And get up off my knees,
The boy leaves,
And then the liar I ignore,
And then I am free,
When I decide not to listen,
To my lying heart anymore.


-anna sluder

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