writingifuckinglike:

If You Buy An Old Polygraph At a Swap Meet, Do Not Break It Out At a Party
by Derrick Brown

When I first brought the thing home
I had no idea it would change me for the better.
Honesty is a wide shot of a movie lot.

Now, I cannot trust lovers or anyone with curly hair.
The clerk at my supermarket wants my life.
The hairdresser keeps looking at my neck
and then the scissors
and then my neck.
I don’t trust you. Your pants are baggy.
You’ve got choking hands.
All dresses are fingerprint recording devices.
I don’t trust your painted face.
I don’t like that you keep looking down or that your eyes shift into neutral… .
like a dying man’s… .
as a dying man’s.

How do you know what is honest anymore?
Because your snotty toddler is not the most adorable thing in the world?
Because the cops don’t actually care if you have a nice day?
Because you are not the world’s best grandma and didn’t even apply in time?
Because that chocolate is not to die for unless you were a dog
and then you’d just be a dead dog?
Because I am still alive and death did not do us part?

Trust the machine.
You can trust something without a heartbeat.

Everyone practiced beating the machine
through breathing techniques,
biting of the tongue,
thumbtacks
and squeezing of various butt muscles.

It didn’t matter.

“Have you ever wanted someone more than me?”
“Have you ever lied to me?”

The slightest pause means gather the jackets.
Everything honest ends in silence.