I once thought naively that truth was paramount, that no matter strangers or friends alike, those that accepted who I was and who I had been were those enough to keep close to me.

I'd read a thousand times that the past haunts you, and with the still lingering innocence of my eighteen years I dismissed it with a flick of my hand.

And as the glass shattered against the doorframe and shards slipped into my skin to remind me moments later that he'd left, he called me a whore.
"Your a fucking whore. Thats what you'll go back to and thats what you'll always be. "

And the demons erupted from his soul and mated with mine and they produced this love child called reality. For as I grow older I realise that evil has power over reality and our faith in the unknown is the only thing binding us to what we cannot comprehend and a hope that something beyond us exists.

And as I crawl intoxicated into the cleft of the wall it is not his passing that I mourn, mainly the fact that I have sacrificed what is sacred to him before his time. I know that no matter the substance of the men I shall forth hold, that no-one can ignore the shadows and ghosts forever.

I am like the boy who cried wolf, and my blatant pleas of truth fall on deaf ears as I scramble to regain what I have lost.
Whore, Whore, Whore, Whore my soul cries and I plea to him that I am able to change.

And in that revelation, I realise I am lying to him and the world. He knows my lies and the greatest lie is the most painful truth to behold. The nature of the beast, and whilst I am capable of ignoring it's presence it still trespasses upon my soul.

Under the guise of sexual freedom and confidence, of the painful pleas of those disrupted I shroud myself in progression and naturalness. I am not natural. My desires are as dark as the eyes that which judged me.

And in the weeks to come I will vainly attempt to once again flee that of which I was in the process of becoming what I could have been.

Childishly, I run from the consequences to a new city in which I have matured choices to make. And childishly, I will once again scratch at the varnish to unveil the truth fruitlessly.

For I now know that Truth is as rare as happiness.
And while the truth can set you free, it will trap you in the reality you inhabit as soon as it is uttered.

"They are my secrets! They are not your's to tell!" and whilst I have learned a lesson, the youthfulness of my soul betrays his life experience. He wanted to fly higher, and perhaps in my idealistic visions I shot holes in his wings.

In the end, the truth just gives me myself.
And I am honestly a whore.