we're going places

I Know You're Lying, Please Stop

We've been here before
but I was you and I was twelve
and I didn't know better and you expected me to
figure it out, on my own, no Internet those days, no particular
instinct for what people do. You'd scream
like the world had collapsed and if I did the same thing
-- spill some milk, drop a glass -- my arms would bear
the shape of your angry fingers come morning.

Now there's nothing
I can say, or do, or plead, or cry through my panic,
to give you a glimpse into that old perspective,
to make you remember what I've told you a million times.
Again.

I lay my spoons where they fit, and scoop around my crowded memories.
I push around the resentment on my plate,
and you lie to me.

I know it's an illness. I have some of my own.

You never understood, even when you tried to. You accept now, but you weren't kind.
More than not, you were cruel. I've spared you that treatment. I wish it weren't
a thing I'm aware I'm doing, but the trash can is full
and I can't throw the frustration away.