Fraudulence.

I am no creator
I am masterful at the art of 
mimicry, ambling through the 
dictionary of my mind, sulkily 
pushing words off shelves.

I am not an artist
I'm best at tracing heavy lines
through transparent pages until
they show up, throwing contrast
onto the planes of my face.

I am not a poet
I am skilled at being conceited 
enough to think you care about 
this lack of rhyme, this lack of thought
that I spindle into stanzas.

I am not a charmer
I spend most of my time alone
making myself palatable, and this 
magnetism doesn't come naturally,
it took me years to make you like me.

I am no friend
I do what I can to take from you
and trick you into thinking I give back
with that well of passion in my dark eyes,
full of poison you'll keep drinking.

I figured since we don't talk anymore
that it might be time for these lying lips
to whisper the truth, and
though the words are lost in the wind,
maybe they'll catch you,
looking at that letter I wrote when I left
and you'll finally understand
that we never knew me anyway.