Ink-Stained Alibis

Truth is never not gutting.

That’s why we invented fiction —

to stitch our wounds with prettier lies,

to tell the story like it's beautiful

one that doesn’t scream when it comes crashing, face-first.

We don’t write novels because it makes us happy, fulfilled, or complete.

We write them because

the objective truth of life

is too adulterated to breathe through.

Because screeching and squealing “I’m broken”

never made anyone listen.

But say it in a metaphor —

and suddenly

it’s profound, philosophical, even poetic.

We write of betrayed bloodlines and broken betrothals in sonnets and odes, haikus and ballads

add rhythm and rhyme to the rage,

so no one notices the blood spilling over.

We invent protagonists

because no one gives a damn

about unwarranted  breakdowns.

We weave stories and screenplays and three-act plays,

because trauma without sequence and structure, aesthetic and ambience

is just noise.

Fiction became our comfort

bececause truth is too comfortable

in discomfort.

We turned grief into genre,

loss into literature,

pain into paperback.

We edited our parents into villains

and our loneliness into folklores of love for the ages.

We learned to ship and sell all of our fucked up and mess

by calling it "narrative arc."

Because who wants the filth?

The part where the heroes fell.

The part where we stared

into kitchen sinks and bathroom floors

and questioned physics and philosophy

with a blade in hand.

Nobody wants that.

It's too real. It's too unsellable.

So we invented fiction —

not to lie for the sake of lying,

but to survive

without having to explain ourselves.

We wrapped —

trauma in timelines,

dialogue on our demons,

and

gave pain a three-act skeleton

so our blood and bones wouldn’t fall apart in public.

Because truth —

truth is a hand grenade with the pin missing.

It doesn't end well.

It doesn't resolve.

It doesn’t rhyme.

Fiction is what we write

when we still want to be invited to dinner.

So don’t tell me fiction isn’t truth.

It’s truth

wearing makeup,

sitting straight,

smiling for the camera

so you can keep reading without the trigger warnings.

And when you do —

if you feel something sharp twist in your chest,

something ugly,

too familiar,

and too close?

That’s not fiction.

That’s just truth

looking for a sacrifice.