To the mean lady
 

The smile is simple
Beneath the pale eyes is the ease of one
who does not think
The lips are purple with the old fifties lipstick - the water bottle
is stained with it, too
Her filter of tact is as transparent as her paint
And, like the paint, can be washed away by a gulp of that water
It may never have been there in the first place

She is childless and therefore rich. Never misses an opportunity
To mention her wealth, her house, her storage space. Her husband
(Who I have seen laughing with interns in his office) is perfection
Her paintings are nice, admittedly
Though nice is all I can make of it
Her dog is old but sweet and survived the kidney stone, or
what was it – at that point
I had shut her out

But she entered again during coffee break
oh, the laugh may be sincere
But the wrinkled face cannot hide the real thought
And as she reveals it
She reveals the most tactless the most embarrassing truths
Truths
There is never a thing held back
It is the fact that it is a truth, that makes it so painful. I cannot even
Pretend she is wrong.

I write this because she hurt me. She hurt me
And I want to get to the essence of her being so I can hurt her in the same way.
It is childish
But I cannot make her truth my own
No – the most painful thing is that I think her truth is other people’s truth
Making her truth more truthful
Than my own
The pain stabs wounds splits my heart
As I try to fight the reality
That she is right

Then I realize
Her revealing the most painful of truths
May be an asset
But I have never met someone who liked her


This consoles my heart
Strangely.

Het komt over als slecht vertaald Nederlands. Verder, als je iets graag kwijt wil kan je het misschien beter ergens op Psychologie droppen, of is het de bedoeling dat wij je gedicht uitgebreid gaan bekritiseren?