A lie is fabricated,

woven from the threads of insecurity,

sewn with the carefulness of chaos,

and presented hanging with innocence,

glaring back with regret.

Fabric, like anything, is temporary.

Sooner or later the cloth begins to fray,

the details begin to contrast,

and the intricacies seem to fade,

as they are overshadowed by imperfections.

A ripped sweater wouldn’t make its way back into my closet,

so why would I trust a torn person?