You Lied to Live

You didn’t walk away.

You rewrote the story and ran.

Not because I was cruel,

but because I was consistent.

Not because I broke you,

but because I held up a mirror

you couldn’t bear to see.

You lied—

to your friends,

to your family,

maybe even to your therapist.

Spoke half-truths with full conviction

because admitting you left love

would’ve meant facing your own reflection.

You lied—

to turn presence into pressure.

To make structure sound like control.

To recast my protection as something to fear

so you wouldn’t have to own

that you were never ready for the kind of love

that costs comfort

and builds character.

You didn’t leave a bad man.

You left a steady one.

And when your chaos didn’t match my calm,

you called it control

because it made the guilt easier to swallow.

You lied to live.

To keep the version of yourself

that didn’t have to change.

To keep the voices that told you

you were strong for running

and brave for blaming.

But one day,

when the silence is too loud

and the new mask slips—

you’ll remember who I really was.

You’ll remember

who cooked.

Who stayed.

Who listened.

Who prayed.

Who asked for your heart

while you gave me your wounds.

And maybe you’ll still lie to them.

But you won’t be able to lie to yourself forever.

You’ll remember the man you left

and the truth you couldn’t carry.

And I?

I will have already laid it down

and walked away free.