KNAVISH GORGE

I asked how much she thought she knew me on a scale of one to ten;

given that I myself had pegged this number around at least an eight,

but she replied sometimes a seven, but honestly a meagre five,

as though I were asking how much she thought I knew about her.

Even if it were the case, a figure of three would’ve been a stretch,

It’s fascinating how guilt would make humans undercompensate one’s efforts;

only to shield themselves from their own apparent dodgy deeds,

all in a bid to cleanse them of any blame.

A girl whom I had conversed with for no longer than three weeks;

had given a shockingly different response to hold the former statistic in disrepute,

confessing to knowing about seventy percent of who I was,

and owning up to revealing an enormous ten percent of herself.

Of course, I expected this girl to give a measly figure,

how else could she possibly underplay my endeavours toward her,

for in times of anguish and loneliness, like the sun I always provided warmth,

but I had received no such embrace but affectionate shrugs.

She said our many spells of shared laughter were no proof of true acquaintance,

despite the fact, we had known each other for approximately two years,

once again bringing to question what my friendship ever was,

maybe merely a dose of veiled smiles and hours of idle chatter birthed by convenience.

And then she signed her murderous note with a dash of political correctness,

sprinkling a teaspoon of false appreciation to quell the flames of pain in my heart,

to hurriedly quench the thirst of my soul for an earthly companion,

teaching me never to gift compassion to an abyss that swalloweth good intent.

Adesina Aanuoluwapo John - 2017