it’s a hunger that learned sarcasm
a small, rattling god
living behind the teeth
it feeds on flinches
on the micro-collapse of someone else’s posture
on the thrill of making warmth evacuate a room
it’s not strength
it’s starvation with opinions
it sharpens words
because it has nothing else sharp
it throws elbows in conversation
because it has no center of gravity
it mistakes cruelty for clarity
confuses domination with presence
calls it “honesty”
to avoid the autopsy
it’s a cold craft
a little blade you keep polishing
until you forget
what it was ever for
it cannot build
only nick and retreat
nick and retreat
like a cowardly weather system
and here’s the secret it hates most:
it’s loud
because it’s terrified
of being touched without armor
it sneers because tenderness
would expose the hollow
it wounds because it cannot risk
being seen
and found wanting
it’s the sound a soul makes
when it would rather poison the well
than admit it is thirsty
