Your Face and Lace

You could call me a liar,
but I quite like being paraphrased.
You give away your blame like
a gift, and then read me the headlines,
like I was a bystander, rather than
a witness
to your forced frailty.
You have forgotten for too long now,
how little I forgot about you.
You pretend so well now,
that there was never a time when we
held each other, not just in warm arms, but
also in high esteem.
Pedestals are notoriously hard to stay on,
and you insisted on polishing mine.
I was bound to slip,
and fall
from your grace.
It was inevitable that your opinions
became white noise
blocked out by
Guns ‘N Roses and,
the sound of my own reality.
A reality which did not include your voice.
Your hands.
Your self pity parties that
continued long after
all the guests had gone home.
You would serve drinks and smile, and bow
and make small talk about lighting and
the magazine collections,  all alone.
All alone.
If you want me to listen,
put money in my jar.
I will even fake pity, if that is what
you want?
No?
Then wipe your mascara
off your putty face
and go prance around
in your lace disgrace
some place else.