The truth has its way of oozing through the cracks in the coffins we attempt to bury it in. The word secret loses all integrity by second grade, followed by words like “best friends” and soon after the facade of “love” is assassinated by hook ups, break ups, and every type of fuck up there is. Jack scribbled the words in his little black book, but he never really believed a word. Did he really say those things to everyone, did he really commit every unspeakable crime he etched into the flesh of the notebook? Something in his soul screamed no, yet the glass shards in his hand, the blood stains on some of the writings told a different story. How long can pretending to not be something last before you are consumed by that which you attempt to stave off.