I am a clever enemy.
I am always one step up on you:
when you say two, I am three, and four.
I always have the right excuse,
the watertight alibi;
the disarming confession.
There is always a more charitable conclusion.
I am the patron saint
of actors, and confidence tricksters,
of those you like who are not your friend.
And I am not your friend.
I shall slur the tongue of my nemesis,
dim her eyes and dull her ears,
I shall turn her wrath to contentment
and her chiselled marble features
into red and rustic.
I am a disease
that feels like rude good health;
a central nervous system depressant
that makes you forget you are tired,
a last resort that feels like Plan A.
I am a clever enemy,
and one you will never defeat:
the best that you can hope for
is exile from my house of love
and sad celibacy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.