Professions

You call yourself a straight edge
but you look so smug in the dusk
smoking from the side of your mouth
behind your house where
no one can touch you

we both know this quiet
rebellion doesn't count
as long as we don't get caught
so what will you do
when you see me spying
a voyeur crouched in the periphery
in the trees

the way I'd crouch over
your shoulders
those furtive nights
rub truths out of you
like back pain
in places where
friction alone made us
both sinners

it must have slipped your mind to mention
you'd rather make things up than
say you had nothing to reveal

and even now
my nonchalant professions only
follow you around
revel in your iniquities
when you think no one's looking
so pass me that cigarette
because we're both hypocrites here
bathing in our own bad blood