Maybe I knew, growing up
that something was wrong with you.
That your way of hiding things in your pockets
was not the natural way of things
and that others laid them out on the carpet for all to see.
I always admired the way you smooth over
the way you stuffed words into holes in the road
to keep everyone’s cars from veering into the ditch.
I loved that you cared
as much as I hated your politeness, forcing
sweetly down the throats of my friends
and they drank the sugar water like they were parched.
It bled into me, this method,
only I found myself surrounded by carpet people,
those who had no pockets for secrets
and blatantly knocked down my world of non-honest
enveloping me in their consanguinity
plucking the pain from my wastebasket
and fitting it back into my roads of smooth.
The lies were too slippery to last anyway.