He never lied.
Every word whispered to her was true in and of itself,
Heartfelt, real, and consumed with longing.
His feelings for her were as true as the sun rises and sets.
Oh yes, for those urges, he made mistakes,
Engaged in subterfuge searching for a key to her heart,
A way into her subconscious,
But only to seek her heart, just her heart, undertakings of no true consequence.
But he never lied.
She lied.
Two-faced, forthrightness nowhere to be found,
Opening up and portraying friendship she never meant.
Accepting things and cultivating the impression of gratitude,
At last refusing to heed his final desire and leave him be,
Pursuing his attention,
Then lying about it, conjuring stories with no semblance of veracity,
Seeking to destroy him for having ultimately rejected her implied ultimatums.
Torturing context, twisting what happened.
She lied about it.
He reacted badly to that, but with reason, seeking to redirect her from her senseless revenge.
Misleading with reason, self-protection.
But she lied more, and she kept lying, and she still lies even now, to herself and everyone she can bring to believe her, assuage her own guilt.
Prevarications to absolve herself from all in all eyes.
Suborned in it by those she misled and continues to mislead.
It was all his fault, she being the innocent dove, not the calculating story teller.
She created it, whatever ills he may have answered with, she sought the crisis,
For no reason.
And she still lies.
It never had to be what it became and has no earthly reason to stay that way,
But she cannot confess, even to him,
Possessing neither spine nor heart.