Every Misstep You Take

They are watching.
Through keyholes,
through comment sections,
through the narrowed aperture
of their own envy—
they are watching.

They catalogue your cadence,
your commas,
your courage.
They mark each moment
you dare to breathe too loud,
to rise too fast,
to write without apology.

You have become
their chosen specimen—
pinned beneath glass,
a live dissection
of audacity.

Every misstep you take
is rehearsed
in the theatre of their delight.
They wait
for the stumble,
for the blood,
for the quiet gasp
of your unraveling.
They do not clap
for your symmetry.
Only your fracture.

And yet—
you keep walking.
Heel after defiant heel
against the marble floor
of their expectations,
you strut.
Not because it is safe.
But because it is sacred.

You have mastered
the art of forward motion
under surveillance.
Of speaking in full sentences
while being hunted
for syntax.
Of thriving
with a spotlight trained
not to illuminate,
but to incinerate.

They are waiting
for you to err.
To miss a beat.
To crumble
under the noise
of their suspicion.

But you?
You sharpen your pen
on their doubt.
You set your voice
to the rhythm
of their clenched teeth.
You do not flinch
when the vultures circle—
you write louder.

Let them watch.
Let them tremble
at your recklessness.
Let them choke
on your refusal to shrink.

For you know now:
even missteps
make music.
Even stumbles
can be choreography.

You were never theirs to ruin.
And they were never brave enough
to begin.

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