Her fingers crawl independent,
seeking out a compromise
the rest of her refuses to respect,
because this distant disagreement
leave her languidly addictive;
only if she follows can she lead
and bleed excused from accountability,
from all that nonsense nomenclature
wrapping shackles about her shins.

Inside she cries herself awake,
wide open and withered
behind her innocence,
but too cliché for anyone to notice—
she's just an old story told again
by new lips and a fresh tongue
bitten into shamelessness and exile;
call her a liar already,
quit pretending you're still interested
in her selfish condemnation.

Because she'll keep pretending
she believes you,
forget that she knows
so much more than you would guess;
you might be surprised
what thoughts still lurk behind her eyes
so plain and dull and complacent
underneath promises
and twisted truths.

If only you could unremember her.