In this poppy field we shared our first kiss and lick.  The chanting of the children in the adjacent cornfield drowned out our mutual pleading. 

 Months later we parted in the same field. I rationalized my tears as allergies. Another transparent lie she ignored. 

 I blamed her for our demise. A bigger lie even friends dismissed. I still visit the field, self-torture. I can't eat a poppy seed bun without sobbing and/or masturbating. 

I reread Sylvia Plath and ruminate on happier days when the world and our panties lay at our feet. I promised honesty. An ironic lie! Pinocchio wept.