I sharpened myself on silence
while you screamed for help.
Does that make me stronger?
Or just more practiced at pretending I don’t bleed.

I walked through fire
and learned to call the burns “character.”
You curled up in the smoke—
they said you were weak.
I said nothing,
because silence gets rewarded.

I built walls.
You built trust.
Guess who they handed the keys to?

They love a clean story.
Mine looks good in a suit.
Yours looks like truth
with its hands shaking.

So am I better?
Or just better at hiding
what we both know—
that this game was rigged
long before either of us
learned the rules.