Each time you turn from what is true,
not with a scream,
but just enough
to stay untouched,
to keep things smooth,
a fracture forms
beneath your breath.
No sound. No blood.
Just silence.
And a slow collapse.
For truth is not an ornament,
it is air.
It is the flame
by which the soul remembers
what it is.
Without it,
you praise the smoke,
call hunger holy,
and walk
blind
among your own reflections.
Lies are gentle at first.
They do not charge at the gate.
They sit beside you,
calm,
until you forget
you ever knew the door.
They ask for nothing,
until they ask
for everything.
So speak.
Even if your voice is ash.
Even if it costs you comfort,
approval,
ease.
