You dare to speak out of the skeletons—
dust still clinging to their crooked smiles,
bones humming stories that no one wanted to hear
when the room was full
and the lights were low.
You peel truth from the marrow,
a quiet rebellion against the silence
that once kept you chained to the unspoken.
And suddenly—
people scatter like birds startled by their own shadows,
bailing not because you lied,
but because you finally told the truth.
It’s funny how honesty
makes fragile souls tremble;
how loyalty evaporates
when the mask slips.
So you sit with the ghosts,
and they seem less frightening
than the living.
Better to walk alone with truth
than crowded with the comfortable
who run at the first sign
of your real name,
your real wounds,
your real story.
Because only those who’ve buried their own history
can stomach yours—
only those who’ve unearthed their skeletons
will stand beside you
hands dirty,
heart open,
unafraid.