When I was younger, I wrote stories. Loads of them. Mostly for my English classes. Many a time, my teacher, or friends, would ask if those stories were real. Then I’d have to burst their bubbles gently, saying, they may be real, but not to me.
I learnt to lie the right way. And I was good at it.
Who would’ve thought that the person I would lie most to would be me?
That I would convince myself that they were truths so much I believed them? Then again, isn’t that the purpose of lies. Make-believe. Deceive. Convince.
I grew better at lying. I even have the grades to show for it.
I also grew darker in hurting myself.
But there are no scars to prove it.