when your life is lies, the truth cuts.
and the deliverer of truth
seems an assassin
whose knife bares
what you’ve hidden inside.
and though you:
feel the slice;
know the pain;
see the blood;
hate the knife,
and its wielder…
… yet, the only wound made
is to the false and self-serving image
you’ve been allowed to have.
there will be those who will sympathise,
and tell you that the one with the knife
has harmed you,
for you have something they desire,
and your lies serve their purposes.
but their sympathy and avarice
will not heal this wound.
you know this.
there is but one healing for this wound.
without that, the wound remains
and there will forever be a rip
in the false skin you show the world.
but without your lies,
there could be no wound.
and therein lay its only healing.