There was once a little boy with lips sewed shut by thin silver threads.
He had been telling lies, you see, and no one believed a word he said, or so he thought to himself.
It came to him that the words he used to enchant everyone meant nothing,
and so he stole a sewing kit from his little mother
and pressed the needle with the threads into his lips over and over
until the stitches covered his lying smile.
When he was done he broke off his fingers.
No more lies, written or spoken.
Now with his lips sealed and his fingers broken,
how would he tell mesmerising beauty apart from the horrifying ugly?
All he had left was his little body,
fragile and unattractive to the naked eye.
The little boy was so conflicted as there was something deep inside of him,
still lingering that,
even though he could not speak,
spoke to him.
It told him of a great hole that he knew to be true,
a hole deep inside as the whisper that spoke,
a missing piece.
He pondered if everyone was missing a piece of themselves
or if he was alone.
He felt alone.
With words he spoken and lied for love to come,
with words he had written and portrayed his love for others,
lying he had gotten their hearts.
Without words, written or spoken,
would he keep the hearts he loved with his lies?
The little boy did not know the answer to the question,
he feared its answer,
but he did not want to lose what he had earned.
So one night he ran out of his little home and far far away home to all those he loved,
and there at their wonderful home he tore out their hearts,
and ran back home where he kept a metal box.
This little box was smaller than him,
but it was stronger,
for unlike himself the box never lied,
it never used any word at all,
it simply had just one key that unlocked its chest and that was it.
Inside its chest it kept all the anger that ever was and ever could be,
reasonably there was no room for love
but the boy was being unreasonable
and forced down the hearts there anyway and locked the box.
One by one his loved ones left,
going to better world,
for his world was twisted and ugly,
and none ever loved him,
they loved the words he took away and not in his chest where he had all his hate.
Eventually he was all alone and had forgotten how a voice sounds like,
he undid the stitches that caused him such loneliness,
just to hear his voice once again,
but when he did
his tongue spoke on its own
”I am everything I hated”
not wanting to hear more
and without second thought the little boy ripped the tongue out of his mouth.
The little boy died soon by the loss of blood he suffered,
on his grave no flowers were given
nor did they carve a tombstone with his name.
He was forgotten by the world
and everyone lived happily ever after