The Truth Is

The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with caution ~ JK Rowling

I think about all the truths that you felt so strongly about sharing with me - and how deep those truths scalded into my soul, and the ugly vivid scar tissue they left behind. Even though I know with all the truth I have of my own, that YOUR truths were only true for YOU, I am still scarred by them.

I think about all the truths you've spouted from vengeful angry lips, truths borne of fear and insecurity, truths molded by your past, by your own vivid scars, truths grown from desperation and manipulation - and I feel their roots weaving down into my soul irretrievably like some weed gone wild and out of control that overtakes an entire garden, choking it from light and growth.

I can find no more room for your truths, as untrue as they are. I can find no more room for stretching to accommodate, no more ability for folding and bending to maneuver, and no more strength for holding up under your terrible unbeautiful untrue truths. The truth is, I am done with you and your truth.

I have found no beauty in truth.

I think about all the truths I never spoke aloud, truths I hid in my mouth like forbidden candy, tasting of guilt and fear instead of goodness. I wish I had been able to share them, I wish I had been able to hold them out to the light and let them find their own beauty, let their purity shine all around us and lighten up the dark we scurried around in.  But I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't.

I think with regret of all the truths I never spoke, or of truths I whispered and then hurriedly and apologetically took back, of truths I denied myself - and the more I think of them, the more they begin to grow again, to take root, to poke past the shadows, to become exposed.  My truths.  My baby truths. My tender, fresh, still there, truths.  I am growing truth.

Perhaps there is beauty yet to be found...