the stories we tell ourselves at night.

we justify anything
to a point
where the line between what is truth
and what is a fallacy
is blurred.

the things we tell ourselves at night in bed
are just us going over
the conscience of a guilty party,
of everything we should’ve done
but didn’t.

we can stay buried underneath the covers
repeating the same validations
but to the outside world,
their useless–
another tale for the fables
we tell our children
so as to teach them what kind of person
they ought not to be.

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