I have to lie, although that means I throw
a game we said we’d honor till we die.
The whining for “I’m sorry” makes me know
I have to lie.

It’s not my fault she’s bothered. She won’t try
examining herself as cause of woe,
but fancies others’ words have birthed her sigh.

It’s no relief to hoist the mirror, though
reflection shows her whom to vilify.
She won’t attend to explanation, so
I have to lie.