The lies we tell ourselves are often a reflection of our innermost cry for help, the one that rarely ever has the chance to become vocal, to escape the crevice of our mouth. If these cries for help were to ever make way outside of ourselves, out into the open, we would perhaps not be able to look ourselves in the eyes, maybe the mirror would shatter with the pain in our gaze, maybe the shards of glass would melt under the thundering, bludgeoning burden of truth.
On Lies
