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Centripetal 24

I Live A mong the White Cecil Smith “I live among the white lights,” he said to me. “I live among the white lines of love and I cross over and over again trying my best to make them stick to my smooth Un-blessed skin. I live among the white lies.” He was pretty, with bright red eyes all bugged out of his head like he just couldn’t believe that I could believe in him anymore His lips were broken and shaking, puckered and covered in planned words when he looked at me buggy little boy, shaken little dog toy torn at the grungy seams until his head had come undone and his ears were torn from his nose from his eyes Those pretty yellow lined eyes Because everything he saw was gold I told him right then and there that I understood. “I’m a white lie,” I said. “I can feel everything you’ve taken and everything you’ve owned and worked so hard to destroy.” And he grinned in that way that only the really cool killers do “And that’s just what I thought when I saw you,” he said. “I’m a white lie. I’m a pretender.” And I can see inside of you right now that you don’t believe a word that spills from this preplanned package of correct sayings and plastic wrapped lies and prepaid assurances and already written hopes and lines filled with something I had initially intended to be artistic and filled with allusion and soul-touching rhyme But I can’t rhyme anymore It makes me feel so pretty And I can still see the doubt that crawls up between your stomach and lungs

Smith

Centripetal Volume 12 Issue 1  

Volume 12 Issue 1--Fall 2010

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