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?

i'd be thrilled to hear your true, uncensored thoughts. i'd also love to read your writing.