Secrets remain shrouded, unspoken,

yet I see them seep

into the spaces between breaths.

Truth, as it stands,

refuses the grasp of words—

it thrives in the moments

we dare not recount.

 

The echo of vanity

envelops everything I once chased,

leaving me at odds

with the reflection staring back.

Comfort is fleeting, or perhaps,

it never truly existed for me.

 

I hold to the notion they told me—

that truth is what we shape it to be.

Still, my hands shake beneath its weight,

knowing life demands haste

while the sun glares against unmown hay.

Time always slips through fingers I’d thought steady.

 

Where truth dares to illuminate,

I blink against its harsh light, recoiling,

as concealment breeds its own sanctuary.
The lies, given ivory form,

pierce me again and again.
 

Each wound bares a history

I could barely recount,

yet I trace its edges

when silence falls—remembering.