lxi.

6 AM
    I stir in bed,
    pulling the blankets over my head
    hating the feeling of cold bones of lead.
    (I keeps my eyes closed but I don’t go back to sleep because the truth is I don’t want to risk dreaming.)

6:05 AM
    It’s serene. It’s desolate. The world is hushed and intact.
    There are 2 plates on the table and a mug. A wet towel hung on one of the chairs, it takes a minute to put them all away. Coffee smells good at this time and the sun is soft-spoken as I am.

9 AM
    The house begins to awake. Footsteps are heard and the truth is still very quiet at this time.

11 AM
    My mothers scolds me because I’ve been listening to music too loudly again and she asks me to repeat what she just said and I lied and told her I heard her. She threatens to confiscate my headphones and I glare at her. I turn it off.

11:20 AM
    Honesty always seems a little sketchy. People say the truth sets you free, that no matter what it’s the right thing to believe in. I don’t always agree with that, I’m sure you don’t too.

    But in the end it’s for the best, isn’t it?

2 PM
    The brain can be so fake.
    I used to believe that I write because I can’t talk about these things but the funny thing is, writing was my excuse to talk about things. I’m sure you understand. Maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you do it too.

    Lying to others and lying to yourself and believing in those lies.
     Since when have I become accustomed to that?
     Even if I knew the truth and saw it for myself, did I think it’ll inspire me to be stronger?

5 PM
    The truth looks like a setting sun, yellow-orange and scattered clouds. It’s beautiful, sometimes.

7 PM
    I may have never known the truth but I do know a few things about it.

7: 26 PM
    I know it is made up of the shards from a smashed beer bottle laying still on its own puddle of blood.

8:30 PM
    It smells like ashes and cigarettes, liquor mixed with breath. It sounds like yelling and begging. It looks like hands raised into fists, eyebrows pulled down together and the rigid, colds eyes were just the start.

9 PM
    The truth feels like tears in a little girl’s eyes but not down her cheeks.

9:01 PM
    The truth feels heavy on my eyelids.

9:08 PM
    Still, I’m okay.

11:35 PM
    The truth enters your heart and paints itself on its walls. Unwelcome and hurtful it barges through your front door without greeting. Before I sleep, I want you to know that the paint will dry. I want you to know that he’s wrong. We aren’t cardboard cut outs or a 2D audience holding only a whisper of life. You are your own flesh. I want you to know that the truth is a controversial thing but you are responsible for it. Do not let their monochromatic opinions and your aching chest tell you anything less because you deserve every version of the truth.