I still become easier instead of more honest

Dear Delyara, I get simpler. Softer. More agreeable. I explain less of what really matters, not because I have nothing to say, but because some old part of me still believes honesty will cost more than the room is willing to pay. So I become manageable instead. From the outside, it probably looks like maturity. From the inside, it feels like reduction. I hate how quickly it still happens. I hate that my body goes there before my dignity can stop it. And I hate the drive home afterward, when I can feel exactly how much of me I left behind to keep things smooth.