I fear the brutality of truth,
  its uncompromising honesty
  and undeniable existence

Selected for slaughter
  I am summonsed by its prophecy

Then it gashes into me with razor like fangs

Sometimes I think I have become its parody

Laid on a butcher block,
  my private thoughts
  are hacked by the invincibility of truth’s shock
The fresh blood of my ignorant existence 
  squirting denial onto the mirror
  that reflects the lie I lived since my birth

Impaled by the truth

The living flesh of my deceived soul
  stabbed with an edged knife
  splits open into wound like a cleft
Exposed now, the raw, oozing me reads: 
  “there, the truth, you see.”

Truth is like fresh blood:
  hot and sticky in its honesty, 
  and unforgettably red.

I fear it,
  yet I want to know it like I know about death
An intimate hatred to past events
  burns in my breath
Inescapably true and insensitive that truth may be,
  tortured, agonizing and upset, I still wish to see

Truth knows not diplomacy nor does it care
  Its words are whiplashes castigating any pretense

Sentenced to truth, even death would be less intense
  Even armed with a dictionary of swords
  no mortal will ever ably defend

Truth doesn’t blurb or make a scene
  it confronts me naked, ugly, sore and mean
It's the sadistic crusader
  silently wielding its honesty
  boiling my being to scream

Behind every frontage the truth can be seen,
  hidden only from the mind in delusional dream

I fear the honesty of truth
  Bitter, vile, — sweet and beautiful

The truth cuts me in two:
  One piece, the truth, is my book
  The other, the lie, is the way that I look