The Lie I Wear

 "We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin." André Berthiaume.

The Lie I Wear  

I wear this lie to protect myself

I hide behind it, secretly peering out

Seeing without being seen

 

I see your world

I write about its defiant depths

I write about its dizzying heights

I write about the width and breadth of it

 

I am like a child

Trying to feel the thrill of the roller coaster

By standing beside it watching others' faces

I can feel the shaking as it rumbles past

But I will never know the cold feel

Of that bar cinched down across my lap

 

I am your distant admirer

Always watching as you live your life

Trying desperately to feel your passions

But from the safety of my mask

The words behind which I cower

 

Desire drives me

Fear restrains me

If I could, I would not

If I would, I could not

My hands shake and my palms sweat

And the words cover my angst

 

I am your stalker

Flowering your world with my prose

Phonetically espousing my veil  of love

I have such passion and ardor

Behind this disguise of words

 

Live your life and pay no heed

To the man behind the curtain

As he weaves his words

And creates the next lie 

To distract anyone from ever seeing

 

I wear this masquerade of words cleverly knit

And no one really knows me

It makes me alone and very afraid

And yet, here I am, weaving another 

 

This mask wears your face

These eyes see your world

These lips speak your words

This heart feels yours beating

For this one brief intense moment

We are one and the same

 

For this one moment

I feel the cold metal of the bar

I feel the wind in my face

I feel the roar of the wheels on the track

I feel that inescapable pull

Of Earth’s tender tether

 

And then I know

For this one moment

This one short powerful moment

As we share your world

We share my pain

 

And I am not so alone

For a moment

 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 10, 2026 

The Echo of the Lie

Sometimes,

we tell others

the lie we tell ourselves 

Not to deceive 

but to hear it spoken

in another voice—

a voice that might steady

what trembles in our own 

Their acceptance

becomes reinforcement 

a borrowed brace

against the weight

we are not ready

to name 

We feel the truth

pressing at the edges 

a quiet pressure 

a faint pulse

beneath the boards 

We know 

Of course we know 

But knowing

is not the same

as facing 

So we push that knowing

just out of sight—

behind the curtain 

behind the ribs 

behind the practiced smile

that says

“I’m alright” 

And when they nod 

when they believe us 

the lie gains structure 

It becomes

a rickety scaffolding 

but scaffolding nonetheless— 

something to lean against

until the truth

steps forward

and asks to be held

without disguise 

The echo of the lie

is not strength 

It is permission 

A small mercy

that lets us breathe

before the truth

arrives 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 10, 2026 

Soft Lie, Hard Truth

We tell ourselves

small mercies—

the soft lie

that buys us time 

that lets the body

catch its breath

before the truth

steps into the room 

We say

“it’s nothing,”

or “I’m fine,” 

or “this isn’t the moment

I break” 

We say it gently 

as if tone alone

could hold back

the inevitable 

But the hard truth waits 

It always waits 

It has the patience

of stone

and the confidence

of gravity 

It knows

we will meet it

eventually 

Still,

the soft lie

is not betrayal 

It is shelter—

a temporary roof

we build

from whatever scraps

we can reach 

It is the hand

we place on our own chest

to steady the trembling. 

It is the breath

we take

before the plunge 

And when the truth

finally arrives—

unadorned 

unapologetic—

we do not greet it

empty-handed 

We come carrying

the small lie

that kept us upright 

the fragile mercy

that let us walk

toward the impact

instead of collapsing

beneath it 

The truth will out 

It always does 

But the soft lie

is what lets us

accept it

without shattering 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 10, 2026