She mumbled it thin

She mumbled it, thin,

across the conference table.

A word, like cheap tin,

a lie, barely able

to hold its own shape.

And I flinched, not for her,

but for my own scrape,

that old, dull, inner blur.

The time I said 'sorry'

with nothing behind it,

a dry, empty worry.

Just to get past it.

It tasted like dust,

in my own sour mouth.

A quick, shallow thrust

to flee from the truth.

Yeah, I heard her false plea.

And I recognized the sound.

Still stuck in me,

six feet underground.