The Death of Honesty

I’m hurt.

Not the kind of hurt like a scraped knee or a sprained ankle.

Real hurt.

Like a dagger plunged deep inside me and left there. I can feel it twisting my insides into knots. I try to remove it, but I can’t. It’s still there.

When I look to see who’s holding the knife Im shocked to see it’s you. I immediately feel sick. I can’t breathe. Over and over again you plunge your blade, twisting and cutting, ripping me apart, until there’s nothing I can do but cry.

I look in your eyes and your crying too, but not the same tears. My tears are full of pain, hurt, anger, and fear. Pouring out of your eyes are deception, lies, and half truths that you say are to protect me, but your still holding the knife.

Over and over I beg you “PLEASE STOP,” but you don’t. Instead you just slow down the knife and it cuts deeper. You test out the parts of me that are untouched. You wait until you have no other option but to cut deeper, to hurt more, and only admit what was already proven.

I lie there waiting, patiently waiting, for the moment when you’ll stop or decide enough is enough. The moment you’ll finally plunge your dagger deep inside my heart, ending my torment. But it NEVER comes. I place my hands upon yours and guide the knife to my heart, pleading for you to end it all. Begging for you to bare as much of yourself as you have cut away from me, but you won’t.

So there I lie, bleeding, crying, damaged, maybe beyond repair. Contemplating what kind of life could be had with these types of injuries. Wondering if a full recovery is even possible or if the life that must now be led would be worth living. There I lie waiting to be whole again, waiting for healing.

There I lie hurt.


Not the kind of hurt that a bandaid can fix or even stitches. Real hurt, real agony, real pain.

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