The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.
You have to write a lot. And you have to rewrite what you wrote a lot more.
Everything was strange and beautiful and swollen with possibilities.
The easiest lies to tell are the ones you want to be true.
Maybe it was that nearly everyone else was dead and she felt a little bit dead too, but she figured that even a vampire deserved to be saved. Maybe she ought to leave him, but she wasn't going to.
This, the language of deception, we both understand. We were born to it, along with the curses.