Dia dhuit

She didn’t lie all of the time. Facts slipped through her teeth unbidden at times of vulnerability. Just enough to tempt you with a smile, soft and punctuated by a bitten lower lip, you knew your job was beginning. It would penetrate the dark bar, eyes hooded with the warm glow of alcohol and the charming scent of cedar carried with her presence when she leaned over the bar to draw you closer. The rag would invariably slip from your rum-scented fingers and she would whisper a truth, afraid that the walls might hear her naked words. She’s everyone’s savior but her own and that she leaves to your oaken ears. She’s sought forgiveness in her own personal Christ—a sinner with a lying mouth just as rotten as her own.

The ancient bar seems to heave with a great anticipatory inhale. She tells you a lie. The sputtering cough from the pipes in the walls sharing these moments mutters you that you shouldn’t be falling in love with this girl who cries wolf to the cheapest ears in New York City. 

-raynee d. ‘12