Honesty??

Honesty ?

I would tell you truths

that could tear your whole reality apart,

crack the glass you thought was unbreakable,

leave you staring at a reflection

you never wanted to see.

I was always Honesty—

but in varying degrees,

measured, restrained,

because I knew

you could not handle it completely.

You asked for the truth,

the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth,

but when it arrived bare,

you turned away.

So I dressed it in softer clothing,

hid its sharp little face,

because undressed truths

are ugly,

and you were never ready

to look them in the eye.

Still, I was patient with you—

because I loved you.

I bent myself across eggshells,

guarding your feelings

at the expense of my own.

But looking back,

I should have walked on hot charcoal instead,

let the fire scorch every step,

let you feel the burn of what it costs

to hold back what is real.

Because truth is not gentle,

and honesty is not safe.

It cuts, it scars, it scorches—

but only what survives the fire

is worth calling love.

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