you call it truth

like it’s a craft.

something earned

by repetition,

but practice alone

doesn’t make it right.

you can swing all day,

hit every mark

and still be wrong

if the tool

was never meant

for the job.

you open your mouth,

name it honesty,

and leave damage

in your wake

every time.

so maybe

it isn’t courage.

maybe it’s noise

wearing conviction.

maybe it’s time

to look at your hands

before you speak again

because restraint . . .

that quiet

you avoid . . .

can say more

than everything

you’ve ever forced

into the air