Perjury

Taking names and numbers of witnesses
Witless to the motive, opportunity, or crime
My body count is growing exponentially,
A deadly trend of friends with whom I spent my time.
Asphyxiation seems probable
With all the smoke rising from the ashes
Of burning evidence and bridges,
And I tell myself that air is overrated…
I can keep on lying (and dying) like this
Long after she’s long gone;
One more heavy black bag for me to carry.
But the reporter wants to know
The details; damn this idea of trust we have
(Or had). I can trust, I can forgive,
Faking smiles over dinner. Of course I can.
I’m the sinner.
Truth is my exclusive privilege. With my
Clever words and silent gun, I manipulate reality
And give life to new memories; the bystanders
With reason to protest have mysteriously disappeared.
And the reporter (my beautiful, demanding
Fountain of guilt) can almost extract
Honesty (a word almost as important as almost).
But my crocodile grin prevails again
And memories of my motive return in a flood of
Longing and regret;
Accidents and outright murder,
Fleeting emotions and passions
Persuade me to perjure myself
For an accomplice I can never love.