Honestly, have you ever been honest with yourself?
Does your breath fill your lungs, or is it stolen,
held ransom by the lie that bears your name?

There's a certain thrill in self-deception,
the shimmer of a mask molded to your skin,
layer by layer, scraped on thick like survival,
fitting snug to every societal bone.

But beneath that weight, what are you left with?
Bare ribs like prison bars,
a heartbeat that paces but cannot leave.
Here's the truth, raw and gaping,
the world would gladly paint you
in colours that wash away in rain.

And yet.
You are a tide that swells,
the surge against a thousand invisible walls.
Your voice is a pulse, electric with truth,
a spark meant to ignite, not wither or fade.

Can you hear that?
The whisper you buried beneath obedience,
the quiet call wrapped in compromise?

Let it be heard now, like a lion loosed.
To be honest with yourself is to set fire
to every inch that doesn't feel like home,
to burn away the foreign fabric of expectations
until the ashes reveal
the shape you were born to wear.

Reclaim the you that is yours alone,
and dare to stand in that skin,
a stranger, perhaps, but honest,
always honest.