This ain't a Agatha Christie Novel

These tiny slivers of truth
slip past the cracks.
They pry open my lips
and find their way out.
It's through these poisonous
facts that you try and piece together
who you think I am,
or maybe it's just who you want me to be.
But I've mastered this game.
It's not reverse psychology;
it's Russian roulette,
and neither of us will
leave unscathed.
I'll drop a tidbit of what's
behind the veil,
and follow it up with
a sincerely mischievous smile.
You'll follow it up by showing up
at my doorstep at last call,
glassy eyed, looking for
a good fuck and a warm bed.
After a week you'll realize you're
worse off then when you started.
You'll hate yourself for thinking of me,
and you'll hate me for being me.
For being a drunk unhandsome bastard
who presented you with a mystery
you already had the answer to.
This ain't Seven, and I ain't
Verbal Kint.
There is no lesson to be learned.
I'm a jaded human and you were
a dear caught in the headlights.
But a word to the wise;
keep it like a secret
and play it close to the vest,
cause if you give yourself away
what will you have left?