Poets are liars,
worse than the rest of us, which is to say
better.
Digging for the purest words, and the truest
caricature.

But you can't write about the girl
with the cat eyes and the lithe
form, slinking her arms around you,
slipping her legs in and out of tiny jeans
dancing into the shower, streching
languid beneath your lips, clawing
at sheets with her feline fingertips,
parting her soft mouth for yours.

You can't write about the boy with the
sharp hips, with empty eyes, so short-sighted
so blindly loyal. Promising worlds, college,
paid-bills, Disney-love. His hungry mouth, his
ruined heart. You are a liar, so you can't
write about the scraches in the car paint
from the razors of his wrists slamming
your belt studs into the door. They tell the
truth, but you must tell no one that you let him
climb into the back seat after you. You must
ruin his reputation to save your own.

You can't write about all the times you
wondered silently, is this all there is? Is this
supposed to be happiness? And all the times
you answered No. If there is nobody at home,
who are you cheating, really? Nobody, I told
myself, washing off someone elses cologne.
Nobody, I thought, pulling her closer still.

Poets are liars,
but I don't think this is really poetry any
more.
So, have the first bit of truth I've ever told
you:

I'm tired of nobodies.
Since you're gone,
I am too.