A Pathological Lier
She weaves her truths with thread so thin,
The needle slips and lies begin.
A charming grin, a steady gaze—
Yet words distort in subtle haze.
She speaks of feats she’s never done,
A war she fought, a race she won.
No shame, no pause, no hint of doubt,
Just tales that twist themselves about.
A shifting past, a fiction’s bloom,
Each room she enters, truth makes room.
She swears with oaths and vows so grand,
Yet truth slips slyly from her hand.
She mirrors back what others crave,
Then digs a deeper, softer grave.
No guilt, no fear, just practiced flair—
Her stories float like smoke in air.
But watch the cracks behind the eyes,
Where the truth is hidden and meaning dies.
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