Liar.
You’re the biggest of them all.
You lie in your sleep.
You lie like it’s fun.
You’re a psychopath—
and not even the good-looking kind.
Your mouth reeks.
Not of heavy metals—
something worse:
undesirable,
human filth.
You reek,
and it’s not from the carnage you consume.
Though—what do frail men like you even consume?
If not a tall glass of cold lies.
You reek.
And no one would ever know.
You dress in pretty shirts—
awful colors,
but you think they’re brilliant.
You’re trying to be 1980s,
but you’re just a confused 20-year-old
with no real taste.
Your music is bland.
If not for your friends,
you’d still be choking
on monochromatic tunes.
Go on—
eat more.
Swallow a bowl of lies.
We both know
that’s the only thing
your soft stomach can handle.
You barely eat.
Aren’t you scared?
You could drop dead
in an instant—
and no one would bat an eye.
Not your friends.
Not your mom.
Not even God.
I’d just sip my drink
and say,
“he always wanted attention—
now he’s just being graceful.”