The Cost of Truth

Denoting the urge to tell you more,
a whisper that knocks at my soul’s door.
Flipping through life, too scarred to conform,
afraid of the storm that truth may transform.

I put myself aside, forestalling the reveal,
for the telling of life may be too real.
There’s a weight in my chest, a burden I bear,
knowing that honesty could lead to despair.

To crush my feelings that cannot repair—
would I be left alone, gasping for air?
Yet, what if by speaking, by breaking this shell,
I find a better face where I can dwell?

For what is life if lived in the dark,
hiding the secrets that leave their mark?
I fear the fall, the sting of disgrace,
but perhaps there’s a chance to embrace
a version of me that’s more than I’ve shown,
a self that blossoms once fully grown.

Still, I linger, hesitating to speak,
fearful that my heart may spring a leak.
For to reveal is to risk being torn,
to face rejection, to be reborn.
But I know that silence is a weight I can’t hold,
and the cost of pretending is growing cold.

So here I stand, on the brink of confession,
struggling with doubt and a lingering question—
is it worth the pain, the cost to my soul,
to reveal the truth and risk losing control?

But perhaps the scars are worth the price,
to shed the mask, to drop the guise.
For even if despair awaits,
I’ll face it head-on, I’ll tempt the fates.
To find a better face, a truer me—
the cost of truth may set me free.