Warmongering

I carried my truths like stones,
polished by years of belief,
each smooth, sure, heavy—
ammunition I thought was strength.

I brought them to every table,
carrying them like bucklers
as though each conversation were a battlefield
where all must yield or withdraw.

But stones do not grow,
and barriers do not breathe.
I learned this in the quiet,
when chairs stayed empty,
and silence lingered longer than any guest.

There is a loneliness in certainty,
in the need to be right,
to be whole only when others
reflect the shape of your mind.

I now know that gentler things endure:
the curve of a question,
the pause of listening,
the quiet folding of hands
without answers between them.

Now, I carry these stones quietly
and leave them in my pockets.
I feel their weight but do not cast them.
I meet eyes instead of waging wars
and touch shoulders instead of taking sides.

In the absence of needing to be understood,
I am known more deeply—
not by what I believe,
but by how I connect.