They call me Mr. Smiley because I’m always smiling.
You’d be surprised how few questions I’ve been asked
about who I am.
Not one of them realizes they saw me as a little boy,
the night they ruined my mother.
They only care about themselves,
and that’s fine by me.
I act concerned.
Mirror their body language.
Ask the right questions.
Trust will form.
I’ll become a pal.
Finally, a confidant.
The oversharing has already begun.
And I just can’t help smiling,
knowing
they’re stupidly handing me the keys to their ruin.