Your Truth, Our Lies

They barter your impunity

"There's stuff I'm not supposed to talk about," she said.

I know this. And she's said it before. And she knows I know.

And yet...

"But I'm dying to talk about it."

So I wait. Because either she'll tell me or she won't.

And I know well enough to know that she'll make up her own mind.

She starts to speak several times. Clears her throat. Plays with her hair.

Then stops.

I know what this is about. It's the company she keeps. And the horrible, horrible secrets they keep. The things they do for money.

"I worry," she says, "that I'm destroying my soul. At least I don't still believe in it. I know the difference between what they say and what's real."

She wants reassurance. Wants to know that she can still hold onto what's right even in a world where so much is wrong. A world where she has to pretend that the people doing the evil aren't so bad... just because they're in charge.

That's all she wants.

And I want to give her that reassurance. But I can't even give it to myself. And every time I try all I can hear is this: