\"Well played,\" I mutter, a bitter grace,
As the shadow of your smile touches space.
Another round concluded, neat and sharp,
On the strings of my reacting heart.
You speak the slight, you cast the sneer,
A careless word, a dismissive jeer.
The subtle cut, the truth denied,
A whispered wound you deftly hide.
Your disrespect, a muted hum,
A constant noise I\'ve grown numb from.
But when the echo claims its due,
And honest anger breaks right through,
When my spirit, raw and quick to feel,
Demands a moment for wounds to heal,
You turn the lens, with practiced art,
And blame the fury in my heart.
\"Look at your rage! How disproportionate and grand!
Such an overreaction, out of hand!
My words were light, a passing breeze,
Why can\'t you meet them with such ease?\"
You ignore the hand that cast the stone,
The seed of discord you have sown.
The source of pain, conveniently unseen,
Lost in the fire of my indignant scene.
Your flawless act, a masterstroke,
My genuine hurt, the final joke.
You wear the cloak of injured calm,
While I grapple with the sudden storm.
\"Well played,\" I say again, with clearer sight,
Observing your meticulous, dark light.
You win the argument, the transient fray,
But truth, my friend, finds its own way.
And though the sting of your design remains,
I understand your cunning, breaking chains.
For to see the game, is to no longer play,
And walk enlightened from your sway.