Poetry About Partial Truth: When 10% Feels Like a Enough
70/30
I asked- How often do you just tell me what I want to hear?
“90% I’m authentic, 10% what you want to hear.”
That number sat well with me.
Until I waited too long.
“Maybe 80/20,” they offered,
watching my pause,
I thought,
I could work with that.
“okay 70/30, yes, that seems right”
and I trembled with the weight
70% love, 30% contentment
70% loathing, 30% distaste
70% freezing, 30% discomfort
70% sticky sweat, 30% warmth
70% empowerment, 30% hesitation
70% insecurity, 30% self doubt
70% resilience
70% peace
70% overwhelming authenticity
But what I want
is the 90%
of you
that others never see.
If I have that,
then 10%
won’t sting
I’ll know what you hold back from me
Is so much less than what you hold back from your reality.
Synopsis
70/30: Poetry About Partial Truth and the Heartache of Almost
There’s a certain kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from betrayal or loss—it comes from clarity. From the moment someone gives you a number, a percentage, a measurement of how real your connection is, and it doesn’t match the story you’ve been telling yourself. 70/30 is a poem about that moment. It’s a meditation on love ratios, emotional honesty, and the fantasy of closeness we sometimes write in our own minds.
This poem began with a single question:
“How often do you just tell me what I want to hear?”
And the answer? “90% I’m authentic, 10% what you want to hear.”
That reply didn’t hit like a red flag. It landed more like a sigh. A number that sat well—for a moment. Until, as the poem reveals, the weight of it began to grow. What started as a playful exchange about honesty soon unraveled into a quiet reckoning: what if someone you love is only giving you 70% of themselves, while you’ve been offering 90?
This piece is deeply rooted in lived experience—written in the aftermath of a real conversation that still echoes in the relationship it came from. It explores the specific pain of poetry about partial truth—not full deception, not complete transparency, but the space in-between. The almost. The grey. The ache that comes when you realize you’ve been living in a version of the relationship that doesn’t fully exist outside your own body.
The poem moves between planets—Saturn, Earth—mirroring the emotional orbit of love that doesn’t quite land. These references aren’t just poetic flourishes; they represent the shifting grounds of perception and distance. 70/30 Saturn speaks to the cosmic, otherworldly version of connection that still feels distant. 70/30 Earth brings it back down, to the cold facts, the measured math of what’s really being offered.
At its core, 70/30 is poetry about partial truth—what we give, what we withhold, and what we wish we could pretend away. It’s a reminder that even in love, people edit themselves. And that editing—those withheld thoughts, half-felt emotions, and convenient reassurances—can leave you feeling like you’re building something real on shaky ground.
There’s vulnerability here, but also restraint. The speaker is trying to be okay with 70%. Trying to tell themselves they can work with that. But the poem cracks under the weight of that compromise. Each line of the 70/30 breakdown—70% empowerment, 30% hesitation; 70% freezing, 30% discomfort—reveals the imbalance that’s slowly becoming unbearable. It’s a poem that plays with math and emotion, showing how percentages never quite capture the messiness of feeling.
And yet, there’s still tenderness. The speaker doesn’t fully walk away. They ask for the 90% that others never see. Not perfection, not everything—just the part that feels real. And that ask, in itself, is the most vulnerable line of all.
For readers who crave modern love poetry that reflects the emotional complications of real relationships, 70/30 offers resonance. It speaks to those who’ve ever felt like they were giving more than they were receiving, but stayed anyway, hoping the scales would eventually even out. This is a poem for the emotionally aware, the romantically overinvested, and fellow empaths.
If you’ve ever found yourself asking for honesty but receiving comfort instead…
If you’ve ever wondered what your partner isn’t saying out loud…
If you’ve ever tried to live on 70% and told yourself it was enough…
This is your poem.
70/30 is poetry about partial truth in its rawest form—quiet, haunting, intimate, and deeply human. And sometimes, the most powerful art doesn’t scream. It just lingers.
