Truth slices deeper—
not like the surgeon\'s blade,
precise, practiced,
a neat line sewn shut.
.
No, truth comes jagged,
its edge raw and rusted,
tearing through sinew,
through marrow,
leaving us undone
in a pool of our own silence.
.
It doesn’t ask permission.
It doesn’t wait for readiness.
It falls,
a guillotine at dawn,
its shadow long before the strike.
.
What remains?
Fragments—
a hand reaching for what isn’t there,
a face reflected in broken glass,
the sound of a name
we cannot say without trembling.
.
The wound doesn’t heal.
It changes us.
.
Scar tissue thickens,
a map of what was lost
and what we still carry.
.
Truth does not soothe.
It does not comfort.
It only stands,
bare and blinding,
its weight pressing
on the hollow places
where lies once lived.
.
And yet—
somehow,
in the ache of its clarity,
we begin again.
.
Not unbroken,
but whole,
but real.
.
© R Gordon Zyne