I'm beginning to think I have a fixation on second person.

4 and 20 Blackbirds

Lies define you; they always have. What you are one second means nothing to who you are the next. Life, to you, is a game. A game of false truths and real lies, close enough to taste but too far to grasp.

Everyone talks about how great the truth is, and how the truth will set you free, but you know better. The difference between the falsehood and reality is minute, insignificant. It doesn't matter if you lie about your beliefs; no one will recognize the difference between your lie and their sincerity anyway. In a world where real convictions are few and far between, you can't see the point in telling the truth where you can lie.

You're like the pie in the rhyme, with the blackbirds baked in it. You're real on the outside, false within.

You know the birds could sing any moment now, but that's beside the point. Yes, your lies are part of a fragile tower with more than one supporting strut too few. But it's held this long, it'll survive. It always has. You always have, and you always will.

And yet…

Lies have no substance, nothing beneath the surface. Like the pie, it can't actually be eaten. The blackbirds, your lies, have a life of their own.

But unlike the birds, your lies consume you, drag you deeper into a perdition you never thought you'd face. Somehow, though, the numb is still intact. Because you lack substance, because you don't really live, the pain is faint, far away, easy to ignore.

So, in essence, your lies protect you, save you. But you have to cling to them or the hell you've created will sharpen into reality. Lies, you know, are like a drug, highly addictive and damning, they carry a will of their own.

You're still not sure if you can handle it or not. You've been tested, tried, and judged before, yet the lies still survive. Like the blackbirds who survived the oven, they go on. A little heat won't kill them. Neither will the knife that opened the pie would: they still sang. The lies that define you, create you, control you, have taken hold and refuse to let go. Their grip is painful and sometimes biting, but strangely comforting.

Like Stockholm syndrome, you think. Your captor is your savior.

It's a dangerous belief, keeping you on the edge, giving you no leeway, no room for mistakes. You've got to keep the lies going, one after the other, on and on and on, or everything will collapse. It doesn't frighten you as much as it should, though. Maybe it's because you've fallen before. It hurts when you hit the ground, but you can always get back up.

Because it's all part of the game, right? Sometimes you fail. Every now and then, you lose. But you're an expert at the game you play, the art of lies. You'll always start again, you have no choice. Lies define you; they always have.

So, trembling, you'll bake another pie, keep hell at bay again, if only for a few minutes.

Let the blackbirds sing, you think. They don't belong to you anyway.