You have earned this – the enmity of good men.
But now I see you’re used to it. It’s natural and normal.
You are not somebody to be loved.
Taken care of.
Given nights of passion or days of glorious sunlight.
Except in parody.
And your pretended heartache existed, momentarily,
As a poor attempt to prove to me, or perhaps to yourself,
That you are not without a heart.
You are a poor actor.
Bury your pain, then, in moments
Drenched in vodka
And perhaps nice hotels and a week in Hawaii.
But you buy all that with false coin.
The real cost – the one payment you cannot make:
Your lies, your ill faith, your acts of incredible deceit,
All bragged about,
And, most stupidly,
To those you plan to betray.
Ah, the master criminal.
October 21, 2013, Los Angeles