Painted Truth
A poem for lies you end up believing so much you can convince yourself they are true
Muted, greasy, messy
I stare in awe and disgust at myself and my art, a tangled ball of yarn
I taste the beachy salt of my lies hovering at the tip of my tongue, ready to unfurl and defend my last shred of sanity
How are you doing?
I’m fine
In fact, doing great
The pickle juice drips from my mouth, somehow a little spicy, souring my face
But I swallow that with my pride
I step closer to the poison I concocted
Trying to summon the strength to resist
But the lies mix with my old perfume and start to mock me in my sleep, knowing once I begin I cannot stop
And that fueled by my denial
They become a monster I can no longer control
Still,
I plaster a smile and spout social platitudes
The melody growing burdensome
The chorus annoying
The beats becoming not just boring — meaningless
I’m sick of all of it
I’m going insane
Screams that never even reach my vocal chords
You never wanted it anyways
You have so much to do
This was meant to be
You are lucky — look around you!
Mantras to deaf ears
The truth lurking behind “doing okay”
Because not being okay is worse
Not socially acceptable, not explicable
The rage at my weakness grows
And the walls skyrocket until they tower over my body
Until I am but a shred of reality
And that’s what painted truths can do to you
Until you scratch away all those layers
And are left to stare at what and who is really underneath
The person that stares back is one step closer to the truth
