In these writings, we lie.
A smidgen of red, black, navy-blue ink over truth.
Cross outs over uglier words, dotted full stops to string the infinite memories.
To make broken glass and porcelein cups whole again.
The kind of facts we did not wish to know, the kind that numbed your veins even in the summer.
We paint them white.
We are liars.
But you were my first *truth.
The last line, I am positive that I quoted from another writer here.
If it is you, please message me, so I can credit it!
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