White Lies

I am thriving,

Or, truly, just barely surviving

On fabricated promises

Of a future with stability and dreams,

With happiness and love.

My entire existence is built

Upon a shaky foundation

Of thousands of deceptions.

But they aren’t lies

If I don’t wholeheartedly believe them.

They are only slightly altered

Versions of the truth,

More like disillusioned hope,

Harming no one

(Only me when these hopes

Are shattered).

They’re white lies,

Which even my mother approved

And encouraged as they supposedly

Save feelings and, most importantly,

Hold good intentions.

But however well-intended,

These falsehoods developed to save me

Are slowly yet steadily killing me.

So what aches more-

Hopelessness

Or destroyed hopes?

And why can't I have

The real thing,

A hope so truthful

I would no longer be dependent

On white lies?

If I knew the answer

I doubt I would be trapped

In this dilemma.

But some day, I’ll know the answer, right?

Some day, I’ll know all of the answers

To all of the questions,

And some day, this aching emptiness

Will be filled, right?

(Wrong.)

Right.