The Shameless Have No Shame
You cannot wound them with truth.
Expose the lie, unmask the trick,
lay their contradictions in a neat row
like bones polished by the sun—
they will not flinch.
The shameless have no shame.
They do not redden when confronted,
do not stumble over the weight of their own words.
They slip easily into new disguises,
spinning fresh falsehoods
before the old ones have cooled.
Accusation is fuel.
Reckoning is theatre.
Every call to account
is another stage on which they perform
their endless, hollow play.
And so you learn:
there is no victory in proving them false,
no triumph in dragging their deceit into the light.
For they are not scorched by exposure—
they are fed by it,
as if lies are oxygen
and integrity is the silence
they will never breathe.
What remains, then, is not to break them,
but to step beyond their reach,
to let their noise collapse
in the emptiness they cannot fill.
The shameless have no shame—
but they have no power, either,
once you stop granting them
the dignity of your disbelief.
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