Tonight's Poet Corner: Lying To My Boss

Lying To My Boss
by Belinda Roddie

It seems like a fever dream now:
The unprovoked, self-contained
mythology erupting from your tongue,
the unprompted diatribe proclaiming
your pseudo-preparation for the unexpected

observation. Your knees shook, sweaty lips
loose like the flaps of a manila envelope,
fluttering as you crafted your shoddy self-defense
against a non-existent assailant. You offered
stale bread crumbs to someone who wasn't

even hungry, and now you're paying
the price for it like a cerebral hemorrhage.
You weren't even good at lying. He knew
you were full of shit almost immediately. He did
amateur detective work, ran his investigation

in the computer lab, and the seating chart
you claimed to have created evaporated like
water in a heat wave. Of course it turned
into gas if it was never written on paper
in the first place, or etched into a poor

desktop's chest. Then he called you out
for it: Wrote it in your evaluation, added
the word, "impulsive," like an unwanted
tattoo, told you that you hadn't eroded his trust,
but actually, the earth had worn away just

enough for you to trip and fall into the sea.
You want to believe that you're still honest.
You could say that you're young and anxious,
but you're borderline thirty years old, and
you don't like leaning on your illness like

a crutch, preventing you from walking,
stopping you from standing upright
and keeping a level head. You don't
want to admit that you panicked because
the excuses you've stacked up like Oreos

are starting to sag; again, they're getting
stale, inedible. You hate lying. In fact, you're
normally too open. You habitually rip your heart
out of its prison and raise it to the sky as if
asking for God's critique of your passion.

You never knew when not to be truthful, so
why screw up now, of all times, when scrutinized?
You didn't have to make anything up. He didn't
ask you, didn't demand that you weave a poor
man's tall tale about your classroom management

and organization skills. The threat level wasn't
red until you painted it that way with your
own brush. You were so scared of failing, like
you were the student being graded, and you
felt judgment oozing from everyone's eyelids,

so to avoid the crash, you thought you'd pull
a fast one, and ironically, that just made you slam
into the wall harder. Admit it: You're not sincere
unless it suits you. You'll be candid if it means
you get to leak your own blood like ink

onto a personal agenda. People get that you
have flaws, but in this day and age, you may
as well write each one in permanent marker
on your skin. You know how much this cost
you, and despite what your loved ones say,

being human doesn't feel safe or right anymore.
Your brain screams at you like an angry teenager
you're trying to discipline. It repeats that you're
a liar. You're untrustworthy. You're reckless
and irrational like a math equation. You don't

deserve to teach.  You don't deserve to shape
the future like clay if all you do it scratch it up.
Why should anyone rely on you if you spew out
a fib as white as your fucking privilege? Who gave
you the right to think that when people state,

"Everybody makes mistakes," you were included
in the same category? What gives? After all
the stewing you've done, is it beef or chicken
that you're serving? Has the ruminating
enlightened you enough to sate your self-pity?

Do you really think you're worth any scorn
in this global text-based adventure of the call-out
culture clan? Do truly honest people ever lie,
even once? Do they stumble? Can they tell you
how cool the air is when the fever finally breaks?

And does it make you feel any better, as
you count the stitches that spell the word
forgiveness along the infected cut traveling
down your quivering jawline, that before you
fumbled, your boss was lying to you, too?