The Taste of Lies

Introduction:

They say words disappear once they’re spoken, but lies don’t. Lies stay. They cling to your tongue, coat your throat, and stain your memory. I’ve tasted lies—my own and those fed to me. And if truth is bread that sustains, then lies are sugar-coated poison: sweet at first, but slowly killing you.

Lies aren’t just about deception. They are about survival, fear, pride, and the desperate need to protect either ourselves or others. But no matter how noble or selfish the reason, every lie leaves a taste. And that taste, once it touches you, never fully goes away.

1. The Sweet Beginning

The first lie I remember telling was harmless—or at least that’s what I told myself. I was eight, and I had broken a glass in the kitchen. When my mother asked who did it, I blamed the wind from the open window. She smiled, shook her head, and believed me.

It felt good.

It felt powerful.

It tasted sweet.

That sweetness stayed with me for years. A small lie to avoid trouble. A soft excuse to make someone feel better. A white lie to dodge awkwardness. They melted on my tongue like sugar, dissolving quickly, leaving behind no guilt, no heaviness.

I thought lies were harmless so long as they didn’t hurt anyone. But sweetness rots quickly.

2. The Bitterness Creeps In

When I grew older, my lies grew sharper. I lied about my grades. I lied to cover up mistakes. I lied to protect my pride.

And suddenly, the flavor changed. Lies no longer melted like sugar. They burned. Bitter, acrid—like black coffee forgotten on the stove, turned to something unpalatable.

I felt it in my body. My throat would tighten, my stomach churned, my chest grew heavy. It was as if my own body rejected what I tried to force down. I’d lie, then lie again to cover the first lie, until I was choking on layers of bitterness.

That’s when I realized: lies don’t just taste sweet. They evolve. They spoil. And once they rot, they leave behind a bitterness that lingers longer than truth ever could.

3. The Metallic Sting

Some lies are worse than others. Some cut like blades in the mouth.

I remember lying to someone I loved. It wasn’t a big lie, at least not in the beginning. Just a simple “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. Then bigger ones followed—“I don’t mind,” “I’ll be there,” “I care the same way you do.”

Each word tasted metallic, sharp like biting your lip too hard and drawing blood. It was guilt turned into iron. It coated my tongue with a metallic sting I couldn’t shake off. And still, I spoke them. Because silence, I told myself, would hurt more.

But the truth? Silence never hurt as much as the weight of those words once the lies collapsed.

4. The Lingering Aftertaste

The cruelest part of lies is that they linger. They never wash away.

I tried everything. Speaking truth after truth, like rinsing my mouth with water. But the lies had already seeped in, souring every word that followed. Even when I was honest, I felt dishonest. Every sentence tasted spoiled, tainted.

And the longer I lived with lies, the more I lost my sense of taste. Truth began to feel bland, almost unbearable. I had numbed myself with sweetness and bitterness for so long that raw honesty felt too sharp, too foreign, too strong.

It’s terrifying when you no longer recognize the taste of truth.

5. The Lies of Others

Of course, not all lies are my own. I’ve swallowed plenty from others, too.

Some came sugar-coated—promises whispered like candy: “I’ll never leave,” “You’re the only one,” “This time it will be different.” I wanted to believe them, so I did. And for a while, they tasted sweet.

But sweetness never lasts. Those promises soured quickly, leaving behind bitterness I couldn’t scrub away. Some lies weren’t sweet at all. They came jagged, like glass hidden in food. They cut deep, leaving wounds that took years to heal.

And yet, perhaps the cruelest lies were not the ones spoken aloud but the ones wrapped in silence—truths withheld, words unsaid. Those tasted like emptiness, like chewing air. They left me hungrier than before, starving for honesty that never arrived.

6. The Final Realization

The hardest truth came the day someone finally spoke to me without varnish, without sugar, without disguise. Their honesty was raw, uncoated, sharp as vinegar. It stung my throat. It burned.

And yet, in that burn, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—relief. Because truth, even when it hurts, cleanses. Lies only contaminate.

That was the day I realized: lies don’t just live on the tongue. They sink deeper. Into your stomach, your chest, your bones. Until you can’t tell where you end and where the lies begin.

Closing Punchline

Now, I live with the flavor of every lie I’ve ever spoken and every lie I’ve ever swallowed. Sweet. Bitter. Metallic. Hollow.

And sometimes, late at night, I wonder: Did I taste the lies… or did the lies taste me?