The Biggest Lie

I stared at the crowd
and told the biggest lie of my life.
It came out smooth, rehearsed,
like butter sliding across warm toast—
not a tremble in my throat,
not a flicker in my eyes.

They were all there—
rows of polished shoes,
clutching glasses,
nodding in rhythms of approval,
smiles stretched taut
like museum portraits
painted to please.

The lights were too bright.
The mic smelled of old breath and cheap ambition.
And still, I stood there—
back straight, palms steady,
heart pounding
like a door someone forgot to lock.

I cleared my throat,
and said it:

“I’m fine. I’m doing well. I’m happy.”

Three sentences.
Nine words.
Infinite weight.

And they applauded.
God, they applauded.

As if I had just sung the anthem of resilience,
as if I hadn’t bitten my tongue
so hard in the green room
I could taste copper
and compromise.

They didn’t know
that the suit I wore
was tailored over bruises.
That behind my smile
lived a scream that hadn’t seen sunlight in months.
That I woke up each morning
negotiating with the ceiling
about reasons to get out of bed.

But I said it anyway—
the lie.
The big, beautiful,
perfectly wrapped lie.
And it felt like slipping into a disguise
stitched from other people’s expectations.

There’s a strange power in pretending.
It buys you time,
buys you silence,
buys you the illusion of control.
Sometimes, it buys you love.

But it also costs.
And oh, it charges interest.

I went home that night
to an apartment that smelled like
burnt toast, unopened mail,
and the ghost of who I was supposed to be.

I poured wine I didn’t want,
ate food I didn’t taste,
and stared at my reflection
like it was someone else’s problem.

Why do we do it?
Why do we lie
when the truth is bleeding under our fingernails?

Because honesty is a grenade
and most people want peace,
not shrapnel.
They want the version of you
that makes them comfortable—
digestible,
cheerful,
just the right shade of human.

So we lie.

We lie
when the relationship is cracking
but we still post smiling pictures.
We lie
when our careers are killing us slowly
but we frame the certificate.
We lie
when grief grips our ribs
but we still say “I’m over it.”
We lie
not because we’re liars,
but because we’re tired
of explaining pain
to people who mistake it for weakness.

The biggest lie of my life
was not a betrayal of someone else.
It was a betrayal of myself.
A mutiny of the soul,
where the real me was gagged and bound
while the polite version gave a speech.

I lied
because I thought I had to.
Because truth felt like bad manners,
like ruining the dinner party with the sound
of your own unraveling.

But here’s the thing:
after the lie,
after the applause,
after the ride home in silence so loud
it felt like thunder,
something broke.

Not loud. Not sudden.
A quiet tear
in the fabric of denial.
A thread pulled,
slow and relentless.

And once you pull that thread,
everything starts to come undone.

I began to wonder—
what would happen
if I told the truth?

What if I stood on that stage
and said:
“I’m not fine. I’m barely here.
I forget what joy feels like.
I’m holding myself together
with old emails and duct tape.
And I need help.”

Would they walk out?
Would they frown, shift in their seats,
whisper about me over drinks?

Or—
would someone in the back row
finally feel seen?

Would a hand find a heart
and say,
“Me too.”

Because maybe the truth
is not a grenade.
Maybe it’s a key.
A door.
A small crack in the concrete
where light sneaks in.

I’m not proud of the lie I told.
But I understand it.
I forgive it.

Because sometimes
survival wears the mask of success.
And we do what we must
to stay standing.

But I’m learning now
that truth, even if it trembles,
even if it comes late,
even if it shakes the room—
is holy.

So next time—
when I’m asked how I’m doing,
when the lights burn my skin
and the mic tastes like metal,
when they lean forward
waiting for my script—

maybe I’ll pause.
Maybe I’ll swallow the lie
before it leaves my tongue.

And maybe I’ll say:

“You know what?
I’m not okay.
But I’m here.
And that counts for something.”

And if no one claps—
I’ll be okay with that.
Because finally,
I’ll be clapping for myself.

#Poetry #TheBiggestLie #MentalHealthMatters #VulnerabilityIsStrength #UnmaskingTruth #BehindTheSmile #AuthenticExpression #SpeakYourTruth