woman wearing black dress

The Truth Hurts

It is so absolutely absurd to me
the way we hurt the ones we love the most.
The way we lie about the tiniest little things.
The way that some of us can never heal,
or the ways in which others teach us
healing is the only path forward.
It makes absolutely no sense to me
that we live our lives in costumes
changed in no less than the blinking of an eye
and those of us who aim to make ourselves
appear absolutely infallible
turn out to be the very most fallible;
more so than everyone else.
Yet, that part makes sense to me.
You can’t build a skyscraper
out of toothpicks
just in the same way that
you can never rest a stable life
on a foundation
made of false and weighty promises.
The truth will always come out,
visible as the thickest layer of oil
on the surface of the ocean.
If you lower a hand to lift it up
it will oblige, thicker than lies
and ever-so-slightly less malleable.
It’s unavoidable.
It stands out.

Yes, it will set you free,
but it will also kill a fallible spirit.
The truth is you as much
as a lie makes up a part of you.
Does that fact set you just as free?
Somewhere, even within
the material composition of a lie,
if you look hard enough,
you’ll notice a reflection
staring back at you.
Regardless of the thickness
of this pool you’ve created.
A better question here is
If the mirage you’ve materialized–
If the mask, if the one beneath
the oil, had a voice,
if your trauma and your coping
had its own way and its very
own independent being:
Would it see you?
Would it speak up?
If the answer is yes.
What would it say?

About the author
Healing wounds with love and letters. Follow Laura on Instagram or read more articles from Laura on Thought Catalog.

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