The Unvarnished Truth
A poem
I sit in the middle of the room,
a bare bulb swinging, casting
shadows like questions,
as if the light itself is uncertain
whether to reveal or to hide.
The walls are too thin —
the whispers of neighbors creep through,
their lives stitched into the fabric
of my own, unraveling
the seams of my silence.
My breath catches on the edge
of a word I dare not speak —
I am afraid of its weight,
how it might tip the scale
from truth to something
I can no longer deny.
The pages of my book lie open,
each sentence a mirror
that reflects only what I refuse to see,
the ink bleeding into
the creases of my hands,
staining them with stories
I’ve yet to write.
Outside, the city hums,
its voice a chorus of indifference,
each note a reminder
that the world spins on,
with or without me.
I long for the simplicity
of a comma,
a pause where I can rest,
but the lines keep running,
pulling me forward
to a place where the end
is just the beginning,
where I must face
the unvarnished truth
I’ve buried beneath
layers of fiction.
And when the last word
is finally spoken,
it will echo,
a whisper in the dark,
leaving me alone
with the silence
I’ve been trying
so hard to escape.
But even in that quiet,
there is a pulse,
a beat that reminds me
I am still alive,
still writing,
still searching
for the perfect phrase
to capture the chaos
inside.
And in that moment,
I know —
the truth is not something
I can write;
it’s something
I must become.
© Ani Eldritch, 2024.
