there's a hole in the puppet on your foot

He gives himself away each time. He can't help it. He might know better, but he's unable to stop himself. He pushes too hard. He's impatient. He tries to weave a web of subtlety and suggestion, but his threads are ropes, and they won't hold. They fall heavily, empty. Nothing caught in the trap. He'll have to gather them up, again, and try a different tack. Though what avenues are possibly left? What hasn't been exhausted?

And it's insulting. 

Because it's so obvious. I mean, for the love of Christ, who says that? No one. No one says that.

And her senses only become sharper each time. She can catch him out quicker - it's he who's given her the practice. And her disgust grows, branching out from the place it was seeded, what? Six. Six years ago, planted by the first liar. The original liar. 

Predator. Deceit. Preying, lying. 


Watch me turn away without so much as a second thought, and never look back. You have no idea how easy it is for me. You'd be terrified if you did. You'd think I wasn't even human, how quickly and completely I will sever without hesitation, and be the better stronger for it. 

I fucking hate predatory men for whom nothing and no one is ever enough. More, more, more they need. More, more, more. Collecting women like toys in a box, like insatiable, spoiled brats. 

Tend to your own home before you go crashing into someone else's. Finish what you started before you start something new.

There is nothing. I hate. More. Than a man who lies to me.

And yet, every one of them is doing the next man I love an enormous favor. If they only knew what he's going to get, in reverse displacement of my disgust, which will become gratitude for honesty and vulnerability and loyalty, which will become passion and joy poured all over him the likes of which these liars will never, ever be the benefactor of.