Truth

It matters not that the binding I am cutting away is made of sheets from the bed you were born in. It matters not that they hold scented memories of when you were a wife, a child, a bride.

It matters not who put them there, including yourself from a passive rolling over and over and over again and again, each time biting your tongue saying nothing, letting it go. Letting yourself become smaller, smaller, invisible, and unseen.

I am not here to placate you. Comfort you, soothe your wounds, wipe away your tears, hold you and tell you that everything is going to be all right, because that is not my role right now. To be mother - comfort - guide.

All I am right now -

I'm telling you as I draw out the blade again and again turning you over, or upside down, bumping your head ever against the past.

Is that my only name is TRUTH, and I am here to set you free.