I live a life of hypocrisy;
Contradicting words with acts.
There is no guilt, though.
I assure you of that.
Because I deny words already
Rejected by reality.

I utter lies that I myself partly distrust.
My speech, a suicidal prophecy,
A contradiction of self-harm.
I talk of talking, yet never really talk at all.

I do not lie as a cold shelter,
For I truly believe what I say,
Even if my belief wavers.
I lie to render it true.
It is mere coincidence that my honest
Lies blanket me with ice.
It is cold yet warm; an uncomfortable contradiction
Reflective of my perpetual discomfort
Because difference disturbs,
And discomfort is being.

I stay silent in pain
From harm which is ideological.
My body does not react
To the turmoil of the mind
Until it does,
And it acts.
It acts as it can't, but can.
It defies rules before they can be realised.

And so I talk about how I cannot,
And while I lament my inability,
I talk.