Tell me the truth.
Don’t sugarcoat it,
don’t wrap it in shiny paper
like a gift I never asked for.
I can smell a lie the way smoke
betrays a burning pot.
I am not easily fooled.
My boundaries are not for negotiation,
and my patience is not a playground.
If you try me—
oh, darling—
The fire comes.
And it does not ask permission
before it cleans house.
Lies stagnate.
They clog the room like bad incense,
like week-old flowers refusing to leave.
Truth, even sharp truth,
is fresh air—
it cuts, it cleans,
it opens the window.
So spare me the fiction.
I do not subscribe to that magazine.
I prefer my stories unscripted,
unvarnished,
straight, no chaser.
Because here’s the thing:
I laugh at lies.
I roast them over my fire,
and while they scream,
I sip my tea with poise.
The ash?
It becomes compost for my next bloom.
Tell me the truth.
With grace, with courage, with trembling if you must.
But lie, and the only consequence
is watching me shine brighter
in the fire you thought would dim me–
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