Oxygen and Lies

it’s a small world,
 you say—
 after seeing me
 for the first time in years.

i thought you’d ask,
 what happened?
 what’s wrong with you?

but instead,
 i told you a different story—
 a lie.
 a quiet lie
 to keep the truth from drowning you.

because the truth—
 it’s a cage.
 a shadow that wraps tight
 around my ribs,
 squeezing every breath away.

it’s controlling,
 suffocating,
 eating me alive
 from the inside out.

and i could never say it out loud.
 how could i?
 truth is a funny word—
 no one ever really tells it.
 they say it would hurt you,
 but finding out they lied
 cuts deeper than any knife.

lying became easier.
 it was my shield,
 my only comfort
 in the chaos.

anxiety spread like wildfire
 through my lungs,
 pain like a weight
 that crushed my chest,
 and lying—
 lying became my oxygen.

i need oxygen.
 just like i need the truth.

but the truth is heavy.
 it’s hard to carry
 when no one wants to help.

so i lie.
 because it’s easier.
 because lying
 is softer on the skin.
 it’s the quiet breath
 between the screams,
 the shadow i hide behind
 when the world gets too loud.

and maybe—
 maybe it always will be.

but sometimes—
 when i’m alone,
 i think about all the pain,
 all the bad thoughts i swallow,
 and how i’ve lied to everyone
 about being okay.

while deep beneath the surface,
 i’m drowning—
 alone in the ocean,
 silent under the waves,
 while everyone else
 breathes easy
 above water,
 safe from the suffocation.

and then there’s the lies
 about how i look—
 the smile i fake,
 the confidence i borrow,
 the mask i wear
 to hide the cracks.

i lie about being someone else—
 someone better,
 someone prettier,
 someone they’ll like.

and the scary part is—
 everyone believes it.

so i change—
 not because i want to,
 but because i have to,
 because the version of me
 that’s honest and real
 isn’t enough
 to fit into this world
 that demands perfection
 and silence
 and lies.