The stories you tell are lies. All of them, lies. Lies about the money and the moments; the bad without the good. The struggles that are made up and the sorry’s that were never said. Lies about the pain and the angst and the mental verses might as well have been physical, abuse. Or lack thereof. All of it, lies.
To fulfill what? The denial that all the lies about me are in turn truths about you? I wouldn’t dare spit wicked falsities into the desperate ocean of rumor-hungry ears. I barely feel free enough to spill the actuality of it all.
How is healing supposed to begin when the damage never ended? What’s more agonizing than the lies you spread.. is that I should have recognized the scarlet colored flags so much sooner.