The Lie Eater
It starts with silence.
Not peace. Not stillness.
Just the dead space between what's said and what's meant.
You wake to voices that never speak straight.
Eyes that never meet yours.
Smiles stretched too wide.
Truth is not absent—it's buried, strangled, wearing someone else's skin.
You breathe in falsehood.
It clings to your lungs like smoke—
thick and bitter.
You exhale nothing but questions.
You are hungry.
Not for food.
Not for love.
For something real.
But there is nothing real here.
So you eat what you can.
Lies, served raw, slick and shaking.
You learn to swallow without choking.
You learn to smile with blood in your teeth.
They don't thank you.
They don't look at you.
You are the thing they need, but cannot bear to see.
You remember when you still hoped.
You remember when you still trusted.
Those memories are soft.
You consume them too.
You walk among them, heavy with their secrets.
You know the truth: they hide behind power, behind vows, behind love songs.
You know the truth they won't admit, even to themselves.
And they hate you for it.
Because you know.
And yet, still, you stay silent.
Not because you're merciful.
Not because you're kind.
But because you know the taste of what would happen if you spoke.
"You are afraid," you think, "What if I consume myself, piece by piece?"
But then the truth strikes you:
The final trick of the deceivers was never the power they offered.
It was in the belief that you had a choice at all.
Even your perseverance was written into the script.
The final lie wasn't their power; it was your choice.
They let you believe you were free.
That was the cage.
"Monster," they call you. Is that right?
It's easier than saying your name.
"Are you not a hero?" he asks.
No.
You are the consequence.
"You are a wound born from the earth's flaw, and the world keeps carving itself into you."
Forever.