The Biggest Lie

It manifests as a tentacled presence that creeps, grabs and collects -- eradicating traces of your hope and propelling you backward into the suffocating deep. 

Occassionally you're taunted with traces of light that resemble what you used to know.

"Tempting?" Of course. This is your first introduction to Biggest Lie.

Your starved and exhausted spirit climbs, clamoring out of the darkness and grasping at the glimmer of  sunshine that Biggest Lie teased. As you arrive, illumined hope before you, Biggest Lie heaves you back into the abyss, reminding you all the while that joy is never yours. 

"You don't deserve light," Biggest Lie snarls.

"You're worthless," Biggest Lie calls.

"Your life is meaningless," it declares. 

"Here," Biggest Lie offers, "take this knife, these pills or this rope. These things will make me better."

With its wicked tongue, Biggest Lie laps at the grooves of insecurity to convince you that noone really wants your truth. 

Never one to betray the darkness below, Biggest Lie assures you that happiness, peace and contentment is what THEY prefer to see.

"It doesn't have to be real," Biggest Lie quips. 

And you know this to be true.

Because in the quiet of parking lots and seclusion of showers, Biggest Lie swats away tears and chokes out screams.

There's no room for help here. 

"They can't know," it whispers. 

"They wouldn't understand," it proclaims.

"They shouldn't be bothered with this," it convinces.

Over and over again.  

"How are you?" they ask. 

"Just fine," you offer despite the aching in your chest. "Just fine." 

But you know that, is the biggest lie.