stranger than fiction.

these lies.

there were so many lies told to her over the years. so many it was unfathomable. she couldn’t imagine life without them. she didn’t know if she could even handle the truth.

the truth. surely that was a joke. what was real and what wasn’t? she could barely tell you anymore.

some had been told to protect her, others had merely been told for the author’s benefit. but that didn’t matter, they were still lies. like the ripping of band-aid, they would reveal scars left from wounds untold.

as she grew, she found these lies to be what they were. every time one was discovered, it had unforeseen effects. it affected not only the facet to which it was applied, but it also spread throughout her soul. it had become not unlike a disease, infecting and spreading, causing her to feel as though the very fibers of he being could collapse if it continued to attack so aggressively.

she found these lies purely by accident. maybe that’s what hurt the most. that even into her adulthood, no one who had manufactured what would become such harmful things in the name of ‘compassion’ had the decency to look in the eyes and tell her what was real. it seemed as though these were the most painful, in fact.

the aggression of a lie told to be simply that was painful. it was meant to be so, and it succeeded easily. the lies that were told in the name of love were unbearable. they would rip her apart down to her core. this was not love, it was pride. it was regret. it was selfish. it was all this and more, but it was not love. it was only called such to justify the lies.

perhaps that was exactly what kept her on her path to dismantle every lie, no matter the cost. she would discover the truth. she would unearth the horrors of reality. all would be known.

she would not cease until she understood how they could do this to her.

but it would never make sense.


~ by Mary Christa on February 5, 2010.

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