"Tell me your secrets, songbird, give it to me straight."
Straight, like a good shot of rum
shooting secrets down your throat
past mandatory dysfunctional digestive systems
and straight into your veins.
Is this how you straight you want it?
Is this the truth you've come to crave?
Personally, I think a good shot is easier to handle than the truth
because once that slides past veins and burrows its home in your brain
it's a lot harder to erase certain memories.
Fingertips like poisonous spiders,
crawling over your naked body, shadows etched upon alabaster
and the songbirds singing simultaneous to the rising sun.
These are the things that are a lot harder to forget.
Or perhaps you'd like it mixed, like a rum and cola?
Could you handle the half-truths a little better?
So I'll give it to you fifty-fifty, because it's still a little hard to handle
and I don't have the time to measure out shots to the perfect ounce,
and I was never good with specifications, dates, times, words, whispers,
so I'd much rather have to not admit anything in particular.
Keep you liquored up, until your memories fade away with ease.
Forgetting everything, with my unhealthy means.
Or I could pour us a glass of cola each,
and hide my rum out of arm's reach,
and you and I, instead of remaining weak,
could face the truth straight, mixed, low-percent, high-percent, or with no alcholic entanglements.
Perhaps someday, we'll enjoy our first sober kiss.