She draws blood but not her own and not visible to the weak or sad who would cling to every word with a reverence. The silent assassin who plots and without remorse goes through life bursting the bubble of languid minds reaching out for a collusion only to be crushed. Desperate for intimacy, for a chance to be part of a connection instead of the almost self absorbed need for coitus to feel good in the moment and then drown in one’s own criticism of their actions. A loathing and self pity yet such an egotistical need to tell. Each day serves for another elaborate lie, carefully thought out from a mind of confusion where the boundaries of fantasy and reality are rapidly merging into one. An unhealthy crush and almost stalkerlike actions where the lie has replaced reality with a grandiose inventiveness of a liaison that doesn’t exist.
The Liar
Published by
sidders65
I love to lie in bed with the window open and listen to the rain and the wind. I love the way snow feel on my tongue when I stick it out to catch the snowflakes. I find poetry a way of expression and reading a way to get lost in another time. I find I am drawn to artistic, unique, honest, genuine people. I like different, I am not materialistic, I am not a millionaire or by any means wealthy but I am in rich in so many other ways. I don't understand people who hunt animals for pleasure. I am an animal lover and humanitarian. Connecting with other people is inspiring, listening to their stories, helping the less fortunate, caring, hugging, understanding and giving a little of my time. A simple act of kindness could be a life changer for a person in need of that connection. View all posts by sidders65
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