I’m a liar,
I’m a quitter,
I’m a biter,
Inconclusive kind of fighter.
I’m a leaver,
I’m a user,
By inaction, I’m a chooser.
I’m a reader,
a self-denying affection-needer.
I’m all these flaws and many else,
Prone to hide them from myself.
But then I tell him, and despite my tries,
He still thinks I’m otherwise.
He hasn’t left this mess I am,
Or redefined my half-made plans;
I thought that maybe that he was blind,
But perhaps that flaw is one of mine?