Faux Pas

I get a rush of pleasure, whenever

I realise I'm being lied to.

It turns me from a cog stuck in

Social pleasantries,

To a scientist wearing a white coat,

Staring down the microscope

At the nature of the human condition.

My emotions flee the scene of

My detached fascination.

I probe further, letting the subject

Get caught in the web of their own contradictions.

The slow burn excites me.

The panicked, flustered expression

That turns at times into anger,

Or bouts of nervous laughter

And the sudden need to be elsewhere.

He who doesn't lie is not interesting.

I struggle to find people with

Nothing to hide

Worth my time.

It's quite unsettling, you may think,

But lying is an artful game.

I respect the player who plays well,

And one day hope to meet one as

Skilled as myself.

There's nothing wrong with me, it's just

A hobby, a quirk,

An innocent obsession.

You believe me right?