my arms are bare and almost scarless, but i won’t wear that dress. all i have for show and tell is a wince from words you stole and the sting of my kidneys as they sort the poison.
“resistance is futile,” i am reminded. some inner sense longs to shout out a warning. instead, fear quiets me. i leave you with mere fractions of complex theories i wouldn’t dare divulge in entirety. if i cannot share it, and i cannot beat it, i can certainly shrug.
i justify my silence the way most egos do with fancy dissonance. could it be that certain truths told will always reek of arrogance, even cruelty? i am not the keeper of knowledge, but i have begun to examine moments when honesty ceases to be an option – when lies seemingly hold us at gunpoint.
after all, does the dress ever make the inquirer “look fat” according to the responder?