Category: Poetry

I am a deceiver.

I live a life with a veneer of righteousness. I say the right thing, give people the right advice. I ask people what they need help from, and what starves them. And when I learn the answer, I give them the fruits of my labor to ensure their strength.

But I am a deceiver. For this is an act. 

I bear a mark of Cain so prevalent that often people find themselves slipping away without any realization of it. The only reason people do not point it out sooner is that the mark is embedded within my chest, underneath my ribcage, and imprinted onto the source of my blood. 

I am a deceiver, for I have convinced others I am not this way. 

I suppose I do not tell people of my mark for the shame I leave myself with when I take off the shirt. Shame. I find that I lean into shame the same as I lean into my bed; the exhaustion of my hate wraps me up in a comforter too hot for an Arizona summer, and I plant myself in the mattress, letting myself grow numb to the sensation of burning heat around me. 

I am a deceiver, for my shame allows me to be. 

I am given time like currency, and it comes in allowances. I find myself spending that allowance on a familiar cycle: Give, Save, Spend. 

I must give my time to others. But this must be the most important time. I must be on my best behavior this time, for that is what makes this time most valuable. So I don’t curse. I don’t speak in a way to turn a nasty eye. I give this time with the understanding that the ones I give it to don’t have an obligation to give it back. 

Then I save my time. For the moments out of reach and not far at all. I save a piece of time managing the pieces of my life that I must hold onto. I pretend to have hobbies. I wipe baking soda off the stove and miss a spot. I forget to take out the trash. I then sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and dread the moment I have to wake up. I’m cheap with my time, for I save it all for my sheets and my comforter. 

What I have left after doing the first two, I am allowed to spend. But by this time, the clock has only so many hours to give. And I have given all my most valuable time, saved myself in the jaws of sleep. So with the remaining time I have to spend, all I can find myself to do is to hate. It’s hatred for the ends of the earth, Sumeria, Judea, and myself. And this hatred I spend my time on has branded me with a Mark of Cain. For I have hated, and therefore I have killed. 

The Lord, in his kindness, looked at the first deceiver and cursed him to crawl on his belly for the rest of his life. The snake never had legs to begin with, and he chose the form for himself. I suppose the ultimate punishment was allowing oneself to stay just the way they’ve always  been.

I am a deceiver, but I hope one day, I may grow a pair of legs.