25th wakes up
with the taste of lies
still warm on its tongue.
Not grand lies,
not operatic betrayals,
but the small,
intimate ones,
the ones spoken softly,
the ones wrapped in promises,
the ones that sound like hope
until they don’t.
This is the day
when the month feels
an unbearable pain,
a bruise beneath the ribs
that throbs
every time memory breathes.
Because she,
whoever she was,
whatever shape she took
in the soft theater
of your expectations,
is not what she said she was.
Not the voice you trusted.
Not the story you believed.
Not the silhouette you built
a quiet altar around.
She is not
what you were expecting
after what she said.
April 25th is the moment
the illusion cracks,
the mask slips,
the truth steps forward
with bare feet
and no apology.
It is the day
when the heart realizes
it has been holding
a version of someone
that never existed
outside the fragile architecture
of your longing.
The pain is sharp,
but it is clean.
It cuts,
but it clarifies.
April 25th teaches
that disappointment
is a kind of revelation,
that truth often arrives
disguised as loss,
that the collapse
of an expectation
is sometimes the only way
to see clearly.
The day ends
with a slow exhale,
a quiet acceptance,
a soft, exhausted truth:
What she was
and what she said
were never the same thing.
And now you finally know
the difference.
