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.
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