by Carlos Dávila Medina

The cloud covers the skies.

Rain pulls at your eyes.

But nothing—nothing—hurts as much

as a little word

that turns to lies.

Not a storm.

Not a scream.

Not the slash of a razor-sharp goodbye.

But the hush of a promise—

soft,

sweet,

and silent—

as it rots beneath your skin like a secret you swallowed

but never digested.

They said,

“Forever.”

A fragile thing, made of air and tongue.

A toy for two broken souls to play pretend—

until the glass doll shatters

and one walks away

barefoot,

bleeding.

I remember the sky that day.

A mute gray,

like the color of a bruise that’s forgotten how it got there.

The wind whispered warnings

but love makes you deaf.

And hope?

Hope makes you stupid.

You stood there,

eyes like black mirrors reflecting nothing back—

not even me.

And in your mouth

was the word I carved in prayers:

Always.

You said it.

But the way your lips moved

tasted like goodbye in disguise.

Some lies are sharp.

Some lies are slow.

Some dress in wedding veils

and bring white flowers to funerals

where the corpse is trust

and the mourner is a fool.

You held my face like you were holding glass.

Careful.

Gentle.

Like it might crack

and cut you.

It was already cracked.

You were just waiting for me to shatter

on my own.

Tell me—

what color is betrayal?

Because I see it in rusted gold.

The kind that shines in sunlight

but turns black in the rain.

Like the ring you gave me,

cheap as your vows,

heavy as your silence.

We don’t fall in love.

We plummet.

And when you land in a body you trust,

you mistake the absence of pain for safety.

But you were a fire escape with missing steps.

And I was running blind from the smoke

just to fall through your words

like ash through fingers.

The night you left,

even the stars hid behind clouds,

ashamed to witness

how you peeled your name off my heart

and left it raw.

You didn’t slam the door.

You whispered it shut.

Even your exit was a lie—

polite,

poised,

like poison in perfume.

People ask what broke us.

They want a story.

A scandal.

A scream.

But all I can say is:

a little word

turned

to lies.

That’s it.

That’s the autopsy report.

No blood, just ink.

No wounds, just whispers.

You said “mine” like it meant something.

But ownership isn’t love.

It’s control in lipstick.

It’s loneliness with a leash.

And I let you call me that.

I wore your word like a tattoo on my soul.

Now I spend every day

scraping the ink

with broken fingernails and guilt.

I see your shadow sometimes.

Not the one you cast on the ground—

the one you left in me.

It lives behind my laughter.

It hides in the folds of my trust.

It whispers:

“They’ll all leave.”

“They all lie.”

And sometimes I believe it.

Do you know what it’s like

to be haunted

by someone who’s still alive?

You don’t need ghosts

when memories are so vivid

they bleed.

I still hear your voice

when the house settles.

I still feel your fingers

when I’m holding someone new.

But mostly—

I still taste your lie

every time I say,

“I’m fine.”

We build love like houses

with words for walls.

But you were the arsonist

and I was home.

I write poems to forget you.

And every poem becomes

another monument to your absence.

Another grave I dig

to bury what you never meant.

Funny.

You lied once.

But I keep telling myself the same story

a thousand ways

just to pretend it meant something.

I am tired of pretty metaphors.

Let’s be real:

You hurt me.

You took my heart,

gutted it,

then handed it back like a gift.

And I said thank you.

They say liars go to hell.

But you?

You live in memory.

That’s worse.

Because hell is supposed to be far away.

But memory—

that’s where I sleep.

What is the anatomy of a lie?

Not just the word—

but the way it moves.

The way it dances on lips like a prayer.

The way it wears kindness like a mask.

The way it makes you feel safe

before it robs you blind.

Your lie didn’t scream.

It kissed me.

Told me I was beautiful.

Said we’d grow old.

And then it packed its things

and vanished

like it had never meant a damn thing.

You want to know pain?

Pain is realizing the person you loved

was only real in your head.

Pain is knowing the version of them

you clung to

was just a ghost

of who they promised to be.

I hope your new life fits better.

I hope the lies you tell now

are easier to live with.

And if** **you ever feel a chill at night,

that’s not the wind.

That’s the truth,

finally catching up.

But I’m not bitter.

I’m bruised.

There’s a difference.

Bitterness is venom.

I’m just bleeding.

Some nights,

the rain still sounds like your footsteps.

Some mornings,

the sun still rises too slow

like it’s mourning something

I buried in your name.

And every time someone says

“forever,”

I flinch.

You taught me that words are weapons.

But not swords.

Needles.

Tiny.

Precise.

Silent.

I still find them in my skin.

So if I ever love again—

I’ll test the weight of their words.

I’ll listen not just to what they say

but how they say it.

And if I smell smoke,

I won’t wait for the fire.

I’ll run.

They say healing isn’t linear.

But mine?

It’s a maze

you built

and left me in.

But here’s the truth:

I’m crawling out.

One scream at a time.

One poem at a time.

One lie unraveled

until I can breathe again.

So thank you.

For the ruin.

For the fire.

For the silence that taught me to sing.

You gave me nothing.

And I turned it into art.

That’s power.

That’s survival.

Rain pulls at my eyes.

But I’m not crying.

Not anymore.

Not for you.

I’ve learned that

nothing hurts as much

as a little word

that turns to lies.

But nothing heals quite like

telling the truth out loud

in a language you never learned from them.

Because truth—

even when whispered—

never lies.