Honesty Poetry Novels & Stories

“Because at twenty-six, it’s easy to believe in poetry. At thirty-four, after you’ve buried someone you love, after you’ve held your daughter while she cries for a mother she can’t remember… poetry feels like a luxury you can’t afford.” The raw honesty of it stole her breath. She’d expected deflection, politeness, the careful walls he’d built around himself. Not this. Not the naked truth handed to her like a fragile, dangerous gift. “I’m sorry,” she said, because it was all she had. “Don’t be.” He turned away again, but not before she saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. “It’s just the truth. And truth is better than poetry anyway. It lasts longer.”

She droned and his lips quirked up slightly at her words, but he said nothing as they reached the checkout counter. "Have you ever thought that sometimes you can be too honest?" Raven questioned, eyeing him as they placed the items on the conveyor belt. "There's no such thing as too honest. You either honest or dishonest, there's no in between." He answered with the only response that made sense. He had never seen reason to lie nor the appeal. Despite knowing that his honesty would sometimes makes ruffles, it never deterred him from being that way. After all, at least people knew where he stood and how to navigate themselves around him. Raven let out a small laugh in response, shaking her he

“I don’t bring hot guys to hotel rooms and have sex with them. I’m better than this.” I chuckle, amused by her self-hype. She groans again, hearing it. “But you’re so hot, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again.” “You’re very honest,” I say. It’s a relief. I hate dishonest people. My tolerance for them is zero. I’ve put down more than I can count just to remind them that loyalty and honesty are my lines in the sand. “It’s not honesty,” she murmurs, giving me a look like I just insulted her. “It’s just desperation. Plain and simple.”

“That’s more important than ready.” “Honesty gets people killed,” I mutter. “In my world, lying does that,” he counters. “Honesty just makes it hurt first.” I snort. “That’s bleak,” I say. “Accurate,” he replies. He presses a button on the console. My own voice—caught on a hot mic I didn’t realize was live—plays back for half a bar before I shot to my feet. “Turn it off,” I bark. He stops it immediately.

I said. "She really is." Something in his voice — warm and certain in a way it hadn't been at the bar last night. "She said — she said the fact that I asked the question honestly instead of just going through with it was the thing that mattered. That going through it without asking would have been worse than anything." I thought about that. About honesty as its own form of loyalty. About the specific courage of a man who had sat at a bar on Atlantic Avenue asking himself whether he was doing the right thing and had then come home and told his fiancée about it.

"The truth is honest. Honesty is the truth. They're the same thing wearing different names.” “ Philosophy isn't an answer Mr. It's simply a stall tactic." I said, sparing a glance at my phone. "Sixteen minutes left.” ‎His smile is sharp, genuine. This time I could see it in his eyes. "You're going to be spectacular when you're not broken." ‎"Well, too bad I'm not broken now.” ‎"Yes, you are." He takes a sip. "We both are,which is exactly why this works. “What works?”

But I could see the panic building in her eyes, the way she was already pulling back into herself. "Should be honest about how I feel," I said simply. She stared at me for a long moment. "And how do you feel?" The question hung between us, loaded with possibility and danger. I could lie, deflect, and make some jokes to ease the tension. It would be the safe choice, the smart choice. Instead, I chose honesty. "Like you make me want to read poetry I don't understand," I said softly. "Just to hear you laugh when I butcher the verses."

A​nd n‍ow I was bou‌nd to t⁠hree men w⁠ho w‍anted me for what⁠ I w​as inst​ead‍ o‍f what I could be s‍acrif​iced for. It wasn't l​ove.‍ It wasn't freedom. It wasn't choice. But it was ho⁠nest. ‌And right‌ now, hon⁠esty was all I had left to hold ont⁠o.

I am here to make sure it’s real. And the next time they try to force my hand, the lesson will cut deeper. Because balance isn’t mercy. It’s honesty.And honesty hurts.

I saw honesty, stripped bare, carried with a kind of loyalty that shook me more than I cared to admit. And for a long moment, I couldn’t find the words to answer her.