Who? Who does the truth hurt?
The teller? The holder of secrets?
The receiver? The one led to the bright, harsh dawn of reality?
I have a scar from every truth I’ve told.
Every slip of the tongue, every whisper, every scream of honesty and another wound appears.
I am branded, cast aside, called a liar.
But every word of truth I speak,
Comes closer to releasing the child of Omelas.
Every drop I bleed is to show the world its own ugliness.
Laughs and Lobotomies 