The poem feels like someone speaking from a place of quiet exhaustion, asking for a moment of softness in a world that has been far too harsh. Each repetition of “Tell me sweet little lies” carries the weight of a heart that knows the truth will hurt, yet still longs for the gentleness of being held by words that won’t cut. The images of ruins, scattered fragments, and storms make the speaker’s vulnerability almost tangible you can sense the trembling beneath the request, the wish to feel whole even if only through illusion. What makes the poem deeply human is its honesty about that longing: the way we sometimes reach for comforting fantasies not because we’re weak, but because we’re tired of being strong. Even the “love sonnets” and “fleeting infatuation” feel like small shelters, temporary but warm. Beneath it all lies a simple, aching plea for tenderness while the storm keeps raging.
I know sweet little lies happen, yet I also recognise that we are each perfectly imperfect. So truth becomes more honest
We are all uniquely imperfect.
Ahhh, I love this.
Thank you, Patty.
Wow, Rea, this is such a great poem. The persona feels betrayal, so much so, that the lies seem small, but they're really huge. Thank you for this.
Thank you, Beth!
Great to see you back here writing, Rea!
Thank you, Jen!
The poem feels like someone speaking from a place of quiet exhaustion, asking for a moment of softness in a world that has been far too harsh. Each repetition of “Tell me sweet little lies” carries the weight of a heart that knows the truth will hurt, yet still longs for the gentleness of being held by words that won’t cut. The images of ruins, scattered fragments, and storms make the speaker’s vulnerability almost tangible you can sense the trembling beneath the request, the wish to feel whole even if only through illusion. What makes the poem deeply human is its honesty about that longing: the way we sometimes reach for comforting fantasies not because we’re weak, but because we’re tired of being strong. Even the “love sonnets” and “fleeting infatuation” feel like small shelters, temporary but warm. Beneath it all lies a simple, aching plea for tenderness while the storm keeps raging.
Thank you, Adrião.
sing it!
Yes!
I first saw the word "pronoia" last week and now it finds me in this wonderful poem. I love a good synchronicity
Me too, Daniel. Thank you.
So beautifully written
Thank you, Aaliya.
Thank you, Aaliya. ❤️
Thank you for the restack, Aaron!