You would pay me
in the same coin
as the others:
vacuous words,
meaningless,
mendacious,
manipulative,
as short on truth
as they are sumptuous
in praise
and empty flattery.
Whether I be
sassy and vivacious,
or solemn and mundane,
your language is the same,
as if I were:
automaton,
everygirl,
just another double-x
to swoon at generic promises
slathered on
without regard
to what is real.
Oh, master of shopworn formula,
I reject your payment.
And you, with singular charm,
deflect all efforts
at barter.
I doubt you'll reconsider,
but if
on some violet evening,
you have a change of heart,
please ask me who I am.
I'll look at the stars
spread like diamonds
across a vibrant sky,
then take your hand
and make a deal:
Trust me
with the currency
of your truth.
I will guard it closely
to my heart,