You talk like you know something
but for all your noise,
you still can't name what I did.

Not clearly.
Not once.
Just scattered words,
bent into shapes that fit your story better than the truth ever could.

You saw ten seconds of me.
then made up the rest.
Convenient, right?
To turn a joke you didn't get
into a crime that never happened.

You never asked.
Never checked.
Just decided.

And now you speak with such certainty,
as if twisting my words
makes yours hold weight.

You mocked how I speak
because you couldn't understand it.
You called it fake
because real things confuse people like you.

You wanted a version of me that you could condemn
without guilt.
You needed someone to blame
so you picked the one who didn't fight back.

You called her names,
not because they were true,
but because you were out of arguments.
When you have nothing to say,
you start reaching for appearance.

You said I redirect blame.
Show me.
Where?
What did I do?

You can't.
Because you don't have facts.
Just feelings.
Just whispers you turned into headlines.

You talk like you're sharp,
but all I see is pride in a house of cards.
So desperate to be right
you forgot to be honest.

So speak.
Twist.
Perform.

Just don't pretend it's truth
when you still
can't even say
what it is
you're so angry about.