I do not raise my voice,
I raise my brow.
That is enough
to rearrange the room.
You speak in borrowed confidence,
pressed suits of certainty,
while your words beg
for a spine.
I have seen crowns
made of air,
and thrones balanced
on applause.
They tremble easily.
Your smile is educated,
polished like a mirror
that reflects only itself.
Mine is a blade,
quiet,
used only when needed.
Do not mistake my silence
for surrender.
I am not impressed;
I am measuring.
Supercilious is the posture
of those who fear depth,
who hover above truth
because drowning
terrifies them.
I stand below,
ankle-deep in reality,
watching you look down,
and realizing
you have nowhere to fall.
