Yes, you were right. You saw through me,
unraveled me like an old threadbare coat,
left me standing, exposed, stripped of my clever disguises.
And yet, I lied.

Why? Perhaps out of habit,
perhaps out of some wretched instinct to survive.
Or perhaps because the truth—raw, naked, merciless—
is more unbearable than the lie itself.

You wanted honesty,
as if truth could bring us closer,
as if it were not a blade waiting to cut us both open.
But I know better.
The world does not want truth.
It wants the illusion of it,
wrapped in softness, dulled at the edges.

So I lied.
Not because I did not trust you,
but because I could not trust myself
to be seen as I truly am.