The truth is a damning thing.

It’s irrevocable. Unchangeable. Concrete.

What’s fluid is our human reaction to it. Or inaction.

We’re fickle beings, as we try to avoid facing our own reflections.

What to do. What to do.

When you know, that its over. That its wrong.

That we’re strangers, both denying each other what we both deserve.

But you just sit there watching it happen around you, to you.

We just keep performing the roles, we auditioned for.

The one’s we’ve been cast into.

On cue. On script.

Despite that you know, it’s all a thinly veiled lie.

A façade poorly disguising the fact that, its just over.

It’s just wrong.

I had a hunch today.

That you’re also tired of dancing to music you secretly hate.

A comment you let slip.

A stray look you gave.

That gave me a hunch, that there’s more you’re not saying.

And you’re tired too.

But too afraid to disturb the balance.

Neither willing.

Neither ready.

Refusing to unleash the inevitable, undoable chaos and pain that will ensue.

Or am I reaching?

Maybe my hunches are my deflections.

Maybe they’re concoctions in my mind.

To make this truth seem less horrible.

To soften the blow.

To lessen the weight.

Maybe I’m wrong.

I’m scared to death, that I’m right that the truth is.

Is this over?

It’s just wrong.

The truth is a damning thing.