everyone's story is a lie.

My story is one that many question; 

There is no clear direction. 

His story is unfair:

He had so much soul inside him,

But his soul outgrew his body.

So here he is:
An empty shell of a hermit crab.

Deserted and alone.

Attempting against all else to be good,

But somehow barely managing to be tolerable.

Everyone’s story is a lie they tell themselves to make them feel important.

We are desperate for affection, 

And when we get the slightest taste,

We simply know no other way to live.

It’s like a drug:
Attention is close to love, 

So people paying attention means that they love you, 

Right?

My dad’s story is limited by the things that only he can see.

His is colored by his perception.

He does not know right from wrong,

True from false,

He tells himself he is okay so he believes it.

What a shame.

The neighbor’s story is when people lie awake at night

Waiting for something to happen to them.

As if life just presses pause waiting for them to resume.

The neighbor never learned how to press play.

Lydia’s story is lost in the filing cabinet of friendships.

Sure, you can still find her,

But is it worth it?

Once I saw a man so internally broken,

He had to break himself on the outside

To make his parts match.

The dog’s story is dictated by the human who owns them.

They are oppressed by their own lovers.

On a day like today,

I sit in bed,

Curled under the blankets, 

Reading novels,

Drinking green tea,

Inhaling the scent of petrichor,

Exhaling sadness.

Mrs. Blocale’s story is interrupted by the quick,

Back-and-forth lashes of Mr. Blocale’s hand.

Only in her tears does anyone get the chance

To hear her sorrows.

Yesterday, I cried myself to sleep

Thinking that I would never amount to anything.

Today, I woke up with swollen eyes,

And an understanding that I am nothing.

My friend’s story is hesitantly told

As she struggles to find the words

To explain how much her heart is breaking

Right in front of me.

Your story is not as important as mine,

Yet you convince yourself otherwise.
 

I say that I’m fine, 

And deep-down,

I think it is true.

You want me to say that I love you,

But I don’t even love myself.

But my story is still confusing,

And it seems never-ending,

And I know you’ll always be there,

But sometimes I get scared you’ll leave.