answering my own rhetoric

I pause—
not 
because I don’t understand,
but 
because I understand too well.

I know the mechanics of cruelty:
how 
it sharpens itself 
on fear,
how 
it mistakes volume 
for strength,
how 
it confuses winning 
with wounding.

So my wondering isn’t innocence.
It’s the old question returning,
weathered, 
tired, 
still unanswered:
Was this really the best version of you available in that moment?

I ask it quietly,
not 
for them—
but 
to remind myself
that meanness is rarely mysterious,
only disappointing.