March 2002
The subtle perforation of your words.
And I hate more the careful
Terrible way you tell the truth.
I'm not one for lying,
But there's a certain way of misrepresentation
That's like a pencil in your gut,
It's so twisted and true
And wrong.
....
If I am covered in a horror of holes,
At least I've resisted,
Hardening my muscles to your onslaught.
Something in me sees the wrongness,
Knows the untruth in the truth,
Finds a certain kind of twisted implication
As violently wrong as lies...
Something in me, impaled as it may be.
....
I may be stung and prodded;
I may be molded
With my substance the same
And the shape of me shifted;
I may be melded to conform
And almost believe I am as you've drawn.
Almost - but no -
I'm still fighting back,
You haven't skewered me
Quite.
