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Poem

Truth cuts deeper
than the surgeon’s blade—
no clean incision,
no practiced hand stitching the wound shut.

Instead, it comes jagged,
its edge raw and rusted,
ripping through sinew and marrow,
leaving us undone,
exposed,
bleeding in the silence
of what we thought we knew.

It does not ask permission.
It does not wait for us to be ready.
Truth falls, sudden and relentless,
like a guillotine at dawn,
its shadow looming
long before the strike.

And when it lands,
what remains?
Fragments.
A hand groping for what isn’t there.
A face fractured
in shards of broken glass.
The sound of a name
we cannot speak without trembling.

The wound truth leaves
does not heal,
not in the way we hope.
It marks us, alters us.
Scar tissue forms,
thick and unyielding,
mapping what was lost,
what was torn away,
and what we still carry.

Truth does not soothe.
It offers no comfort.
It stands,
stark and unrelenting,
pressing its weight
into the hollow spaces
where lies once lived.

And yet—
within the ache of its clarity,
something begins.
Slowly. Painfully.
We rise,
not unbroken,
but whole in a way
we hadn’t known before.
Not untouched,
but real.

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