There is no truth without confession, 

No redemption in fake love for another, 

Only role-played flirting with a stranger in need of a new doll. 

There is no atonement in hiding behind what makes you seem caring. 

He could recognize you from a distance, even through blurry eyes, 

A feeling of stomach-churning dread and desire fused, pervasive sorrow. 

But you, you could not recognize the origin of your supposed fear,

Not from two feet away, not until it faced you and you remembered your act. 

For it was an act, spiteful and true as unicorns, roses serve as proof, 

And it is an act still, as self-serving as the lies you told to prop it up, 

An unfairness inflicted for attention for what no attention should have been given, 

No consolation indulged, but conveyed not for truth but for appearance, 

And though you inflicted far greater damage through your untruthfulness, 

You still think yourself superior, still believe yourself caring … good. 

Heaven will never know you, silent one, for you never recant, never repent, 

Never forgive, never confess, and, so, nothing done, nothing said can ever be sincere. 

You remain trapped in the cage of your own making, covered over with a facade, 

With a child’s petulance, scorning love and, in return, embracing the phony, 

Tricked for all time …. by your own blindness.