Undercover

Somehow, I became the

undercover story.

Someone, somewhere,

wanted to know who I was

and where I was hiding.

The latter was simple to answer

yet the former,

was always dependent on who was asking.

For I knew myself,

and others like me,

as outsiders.

We learned behaviours from the insiders,

learned their language and even

the way they thought.

We tried being them in every way,

changing ourselves in order to

appear beautiful in their eyes.

Worthless, we were, and we knew it.

Somehow, someone was curious

what my role was in all of this.

Beginning to get suspicious of the nights

I spent away from drink

and ever further away from sinister, prying eyes,

someone, (an insider, I presumed)

was desperate for answers.

And, as far as I knew,

they weren't afraid to lose everything for them.

I assumed they had followed me

between dark alleys and around even darker corners.

They knew my style:

sharp, yet delicate.

They knew I used the light rain as an advantage to move more

swiftly through the night.

They knew that my eyes could stop a bullet from

puncturing my chest.

They knew that my smile would make them drop to their knees,

begging for mercy.

I was that dangerous.

And I wasn't afraid to know it.