My truth has stretch marks.
It expands and contracts to accommodate your fragile ego.

Expands.
Bandaging, covering the wounds you incurred, when something far more serious is needed for triage.
The words you need to hear.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.

Contracts.
Retreating within the depths of myself to compartmentalize and to please you.
An inner monologue of comfort.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.

What has become of the truth when it can be twisted and turned, expanded and contracted, stretched and warped?
Is it still viable?
Is it okay?
Is it fine?
I cannot be certain anymore.