CONFESSION BY NUMBERS

We were the perfect three.

He brushed and combed
his hair, then hers, I did mine;
what else could I do?

Three of us left hell that day
but only one of us wanted to
return. Only one of us smiled;
two of us disobeyed orders.

We were the perfect three;
perfectly showy, perfectly
perfect but all cracked and
bruised and broken. Two of us
knew, the higher the podium
and the taller the pedestal, the
deeper the pain, the grander
the lies. Three of us stood
there that day, but two of us
needed to be free. Sometimes,
to be free, someone has to die,
so one of us had to leave.