Barter

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,

and give you mine.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings and The Sunday Whirl.