They laugh first, sharp and pointed,
like knives drawn at a feast.
The kind of laughter that
leaves bruises beneath the skin,
not where anyone can see,
but you feel it anyway.
They call it impossible, absurd,
as if absurd never fed revolutions.
Then their laughter turns to fists,
words heavy as stones.
They fight what threatens
their patchwork shields of certainty.
Clutching old beliefs like lifeboats,
they don’t ask if they’re sinking.
They meet your truth with fire,
hoping its light burns itself out.
But soon comes the soft shrug
of pretense slipping into familiarity.
They rewrite the beginning,
cast themselves as the chorus
that stood singing your praises,
even before anyone listened.
Truth has a way of becoming
self-evident, only after you endure it.