She’s worth the truth


I thought she was the happiest woman in the world until I met her five days after with her head buried beneath the pillow, sniffing, swearing and wishing she’d learnt how to not cry. She kept asking me the one question I had upon a time earnestly sought for its answer


Why did he just realize I wasn’t the one? How could he have made enough room for someone else so soon? Why did he say all those things to me and carelessly tell me, “That was what you wanted to hear”. Why do they tell us what we want to hear?

That last why, that was it. She held my arms firmly like her grip could spill the answer on my palms and we could both finally solve the riddle. Her tear-streaked face had lost the touch from smiles she wore when she relayed how he’d answered every question just the way she always knew her man will.

He was so right, it seemed he listened to our conversations and even used lines in my diary and all the other things she forgotten she’d said every time he’s name came up and promised she’ll stop rolled uncontrollably from her mouth as she stared at the one person she knew would always have a word to assuage her heart.

How could words be so valuable and so misused? False compliments, faux flattery and white lies; all in a bid to say the sweetest things ever heard.

“Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.”



♩♪♫♬ Oh the truth hurts! The lie is worse! ♩♪♫♬…….an answer I gave when someone asked if I could handle the truth after all,

does impracticality defeat curiosity?

Is truth really an elusive captive?


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