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