Is It Real?

How would our truths feel to hold?
Yours would be bread dough – stretchable and warm.
Mine's concrete, cold and cast, unchanging.

You claim to love me but I wonder
if you meant it back then
but it hasn’t held true.

I want to scrub you clean of lies
but would the antiseptic kill or restore
pure lines like washing being ironed?

I search for sincerity in the contours
that map your face, the crinkle
of your nose, the horizontal frown.

I don’t heed your angry denial,
your clever words are circus animals
forced to do your bidding.

But your soft mouth is twitching,
to tell a different story; your dear eyes
are elusive with embarrassment.

Your body’s true but is it real
when your mind overrides it?
Made it betray us both.