Confession

I’m only going to say this once, my friend:

Everybody talks to me about everything.

And when I say everything, I mean the stuff
People don't even tell their therapists--
And when I say everybody, I mean

The German-, French-, and English-speaking world.

So when you start talking generically

About that brief affair you had, or how

You made a few mistakes a few months back,

Or that hot married woman you hooked up with,

Or how you started seeing your New Love

A week ago? Trust me--this isn’t news.

I already know every last detail.

That married woman? We had lunch last week.

Your brief affair? Oh please--it never stopped,

At least according to the other party.

I know you started hooking up with your

New Love six months ago because she went

And introduced you to her bestest friend,

Who then told me. I know the names

Of all your sad mistakes, and even where

You made them, because every single one

Of them told me or told a friend of mine

Every last detail, from the flirty texts

To all the angry e-mails at the end.

So every time you skate around the truth

Or tell me half a story, just remember:

I am a walking tabloid morgue of gossip.

I am a front page of the New York Post

With your name on it. I’m the Wikileaks

Of libel. And the only thing that stops

Your secrets from all getting Google hits

Is that I am ten times more trustworthy

Than a deaf priest in a confessional.

Which means I will not speak to anyone

Of what you say to me, any more than

I will repeat what I’ve been told of you.

Just know I know.

Okay?

Good.

So.

What’s new?

Copyright 2012 Matthew J Wells