The Lie You Tell Yourself

I told myself it wasn't real,

that wounds would fade, that time would heal.

That silence didn't weigh a ton,

that I was fine, that I was numb.

I told myself I didn't care,

that empty rooms weren't hard to bear.

That love was something others knew,

but not for me—it wouldn't do.

I told myself I wasn't scared,

that every time they stopped and stared,

it wasn't me, it wasn't hate,

just people lost, just twist of fate.

I told myself I'd let it go,

that words were wind, that scars don't show.

That time would scrub it from my skin,

but time just locked it deep within.

I told myself the past was dead,

but ghosts don't die, they live instead.

They whisper truths I won't allow,

they haunt the space between me now.

And you—what lie do you hold tight?

What story helps you sleep at night?

What words repeat inside your head,

that keep the truth away instead?

Because lies don't fade, they twist, they grow.

They plant their roots, they start to show.

And speak them long enough, you'll see—

you've forgotten who you used to be.