The ugly truth

“A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.” ― Mark Twain

As it turns out, ‘the ugly truth’ is not the monster hiding under the bed.

Nor is it the skeleton or bag of bones collecting dust in the closet.

In my experience, ‘the truth’ is desperation’s quiet, steady hum.

The softest whisper,

Overheard in a deafening choir of distraction, or vice.

Demanding to leave its host, to walk freely in the exposure of daylight.

The truth stays hidden, but only by trade.

So, we exchange fear for the time we spend running away from it.

The masked figure resembles the people we have been,

And the people we weren’t, to the people we should have been.

Embodying every lost love and lie we tell ourselves.

The truth rarely surfaces as the slap in the face we expect.

Instead, it’s the ivy expanding in girth, cracking the walls we built as barriers.

Fragile enough to unravel at harsh words, lying dormant in years of silent season changes.

Durable enough to survive death itself.

The truth is not the monster hiding under the bed.

It never was.

It’s the child in us, who hoped one day,

We might have the courage to finally face it.