She'd always hated the name, simply given
that she didn't choose.
But it bought the initial rounds,
gave her the first chances.
She made do,
until her first impressions began to tell her
that the second ones are better.
The first time around must be for falling.
(to retreat the watcher,
emerge the getter)
The victorious ones learned quicker,
old wisdom, too often unused.
Soon she knew from simple intuition,
that this would make her better
at lying. She didn't care.
(The game was clearly made
to smooth the art of manipulation)
An eye for an eye
may be war for the mathematician,
but she'd never needed anything
to add up. She had nothing to lose.
So she fashioned her logic,
and saw right through the cover-up.
All the shiny things.
Her truth was just as good,
her words just as empty,
her pretty lips just as sweet.
She learned to move
them right on cue.
She thought it was better to shake things up.
Interpretation was the key,
and in her rage she shook it lose,
and opened the lock that was blocking things
from most of us. (For most, this is better)
But for her own, she used it
to rip right down the middle.
Her dreams and her light,
her black and her red, the colors
of her natural life. Her love,
her strife, her loss and her death.
She drained the wound,
now everything looked better.
It all seemed to merge,
it all looked wetter as it flowed,
as it stayed still,
as it moved.
The truth, her secret,
was that she'd done very little.
And all she'd say
when it was said and done,
was that if we take something, anything
and let it peel away all the layers
with the weight of all the years,
AND if this thing works,
then does it matter what's used?
Does it matter how it ends?
All she'd ever wanted was to be naked,
She didn't care if it was a sin.