Entangled
I hate that I am kind.
I get entangled every year
in a new game of a new hunter.
People weave dulcet tales
to lure me into their companionship
for they know I am famished, so famished
that I keep scouring for scraps of kindness:
a smile, a phrase crammed with sweetness,
an act of courage;
more than enough
to make my lips part in awe.
I hate that I am kind.
You who is seemingly a bel esprit
are unable to figure out
that I can catch lies
the same way I can recite rhymes
that were taught in kindergarten,
effortlessly with eyes closed.
If you think I’m taunting,
I’m prepared to recite them all,
one by one, to you.
Shall we start with, “Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how I wonder what you are?”
I hate that I am kind.
After every betrayal, people cook
galling excuses that they and I both know,
make no sense
yet their audacious hearts prompt them
to come to me so I may welcome them again
with open arms, asking them to dine with me.
I don’t change
even when seasons change,
even when their loyalties waver.
I hate that I am kind.
This is the aftermath
of being an enthusiast of Psychology:
you keep granting the benefit of the doubt
thinking that maybe just maybe
people have a lot
on their small, bedraggled vessel of life
and what they do to you
might just be an unintentional error
even when it’s a calculated effort
to knock you down.
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