I am a pathological liar.
I tell you I hate the winter time, yet I spend hours sledding down icy hills.
I swear I crave attention, but I’m always the one avoiding group dinners.
I profess my disdain for chaos, yet my desk is cluttered with half-finished plans.
I say I’m done with the past, yet I reread old messages like a ritual.
I call myself steady, but I change my mind every time the wind shifts.
I claim I’m tired of this city, though I’ve memorized the names of every street.
I promise I’ll let go, yet I still save receipts from years ago.
I contradict myself with a precision I can’t help but admire,
And maybe the paradox is the most honest thing about me.