do you know  
   who planted          your thoughts —  
          or did they         bloom  
               without asking?

     opinions peel  
         like wallpaper  
   in a house          you've never  
        seen from      the outside.  

               you say:  
        this is right.  
   but who carved        that word  
        into the stone?  
     who handed you            the chisel?

      belief is just  
         fog     in a jar—  
  shake it           and swear  
           it’s       snow.

         who told you  
      fire      was holy  
         but water  
                was wild?

      i heard someone once  
         mistake a noose       for a necklace.  
           it shimmered.  
               it fit.  
                    they smiled.

         how do you know  
      you’re standing         on ground—  
         not        a painted floor  
   that flakes         if you question it?

           do your convictions  
                   creak  
        when you       lean on them?  

    have you ever  
       touched         your thoughts  
             with        bare hands?

       some days  
   i think the sky      is only blue  
        because someone  
              forgot another       color.

       maybe you     aren’t wrong.  
            maybe         no one is.  
         maybe we all  
        just swallowed         different mirrors.

         how do you know  
     the echo        isn’t lying?

               how do you know  
        the voice       is yours?