I lied.

  I lied when I said I was fine.

I lied when I said I was just tired.

I lied even when I didn't say anything at all.

I lied to everyone.

I lied to myself.

I lied so much that I began to believe I was getting better.

That I was happy.

That I wasn't going to break.

I began to believe until I woke up.

I realized that I wasn't at home Friday nights because I was on babysitting duty, but because I didn't have anywhere else to be.

I wasn't writing stories because that's what I wanted to do, but because I had to find an excuse to not think about my life.

I lied.

And the more I lied, the more damaged I became.

I smile and laugh and pretend that the world is cupcakes and glitter.

   And now the lies have invited someone else to the party.

It's a disease. It infects my mind. A disease that is thriving off of my weaknesses.

But why would I tell you?

Because it's the right thing to do?

Because it'll help me get better?

Because I shouldn't bottle up my feelings?

Well guess what?

I've lied too much.

I've lied to the point where if I told you, you wouldn't believe me.

So I'll sit here, in my hollow being, waiting.

Waiting for what?

I don't know.

And for once, that's the truth.