Of lies and love

Here again, I stand, facing myself.

The mirror wears calm like a mask

and I wonder, is this a horror movie?

for it couldn't possibly be me there.

Slowly I speak, carefully, pronouncing each syllable

as though words are glass

and my mouth might turn to a shade of deepest red,

blood ebbing and flowing endlessly from the cut of

tiny, beautiful shards.

But I have practice, and experienced I am in this art

of blatant lies.

For I'm nothing if not a liar,

scheming myself through the swarm of questions

in a deep mire of uncertainty.

I evade and dodge each time

the pointed edge of daggers are shot towards me,

but I've still got the black bruises from the time

the capillaries under my skin

bleed the colour of my truest self.

Conniving liars; the world is made up of just them,

for everyone lies in some ways,

some with something to hide, and some to appear whole,

polishing fractures into stories

that pass for truth.

And then, some to soften reality's burned edges

into a thing of delusional despaired mirth.

However, there are some, much like myself

whose souls are too sensitive to remain unbroken,

and they epitomize of all the three types of kindred spirits

filled with the highest stakes of passion, empathy, and love.

We love with the most intense of feelings,

we fix like ancient healers lost in the spells of time,

yet, we break, hearts as fragile as the thinnest glass,

an imposter impersonating stone.

Yet again, we mend ourselves,

only so that the eyes can catch, remember this:

bearing the same, if not doubled,

capacity for love and healing, as though

the dark ages never came to pass.

But there are turbulent, wildly feral storms,

rooted much beyond what the impassive human eye perceives,

revealing a quite dark soul writhing in turmoil,

so much more than what an impassive human mind could ever imagine.

Answer this, those who call themselves my friends,

don't I seem like the happiest in the world?

Like someone who laughs away all problems and travesties,

undainted by mere petty incidents,

untainted by misery of the gravest depth?

Like someone who shines her eyes and sunshine

flickers and burns through the darkest places?

Unlike someone who is nauseatingly miserable beyond repair,

so much starved for genuine warmth that even the winter breeze's caress

is mistaken for love?

Unlike someone who cannot tell which version of herself is which;

unbotheredly happy,

sickeningly melancholic,

drunkedly mad,

or mercilessly mercurial?

Are you shocked by the utter honesty of these words,

my 'friends'?

Did you guess that my acts of levity

were nothing but a boasting ruse?

Or did you know all along of my misfortune,

and let me play the foolish actor?

Listen here, everyone lost in the momentum

of your endlessly busy lives...

Love as though no barriers exist, untamed and tender.

Hate with the fiercest fire—but only when justified.

Break apart, only to come together again, never breaking others.

Fix, enchantedly, magically.

And more than loving others,

learn to love yourself first,

freeing yourselves from the despair

of lying to preserve the image

you think the world expects.

Seek the most beautiful souls,

for they are the only ones deserving

the love you create and foster.