Lying Liar Who Lies

You are a master of revision,
an architect of false memory,
bending facts until they weep beneath the weight
of your selective recollection.

Your mouth—a well-oiled mechanism of manipulation,
slick with prevarication and perfidy,
its edges sharpened not by truth
but by the repetition of convenient fiction.

You do not lie to survive.
You lie because you can.
Because the cadence of deception
has calcified beneath your tongue,
a muscle memory of malice.

You are a cartographer of chaos,
drawing maps that always lead back to your innocence,
your victimhood—
a myth you’ve canonized in the echo chamber
of your own sanctimonious self-pity.

I watched you
lace your lies with just enough sincerity
to pass for contrition.
But contrition requires a conscience—
and yours was amputated years ago,
replaced by a hollow echo
that says only what it needs to be believed.

You are not misunderstood.
You are not complex.
You are a façade built on foundations of fallacy,
a labyrinth of equivocation
where every turn is an evasion,
every breath a calculated misdirection.

And still—
you parade your half-truths like relics,
relics you desecrated yourself
before dressing them up in euphemism
and parading them before the credulous.

But I see you.
I know the etymology of your duplicity.
You are not enigmatic.
You are not tragic.
You are simply
a lying liar who lies.

And this—
this is your legacy:
not the wounds you denied making,
but the precision with which you twisted the blade
while pretending to offer a bandage.