Maybe, maybe, maybe you're right

maybe I'm the psycho liar

but also maybe fuck you, I've been fighting this fight

since before the flag went up at the starting line

although I'm sure you didn't notice, discussing why you're better

on your soapbox saddle on your high horse that's fettered

to your good Christian upbringing, although you swear you rebelled

but in the same breath tell me I'm destined for hell,

which would most likely make me angry if I could yell through laughter,

but the truth of the matter is that all your facts are disproved after

you've lectured the hardware store on its excess of vices

and proven to your mother that she raised the nicest little boy,

a boy who loves to toy with the little girls' hearts and

big girls' parts and has mastered the art

of turning realities his way, not an actor but playing a part

in a scene that fell apart

but for some reason still rolls on.

(Rene Descartes walks into a bar.

"Can I get you a drink?" asks the bartend.

"I think not," says Rene, and disappears).

Maybe, maybe, maybe you're right

maybe my silence did trigger your flight

to the prettiest fresh meat this side of the river,

but you're the one to blame for the ruin of liver

and it's my fault that you're loose in the world,

but it's your fault that my secrets now are squirreled away

even farther than they were that day

that you coaxed the pearl from my oyster somehow-

whose fault is it now?

It used to keep me down, that young furrowed brow

but somehow these days the dismissal springs fine

a miraculous line that rejects your control

for the first time since we met;

I still ask maybe but quickly am impressed

by the immediate answer.

Maybe, maybe, maybe you're right

maybe the pointed words darting that night were true

or maybe mostly just fuck you.