Ceasefire

I collect paychecks like a proud capitalist

and mock them like an ashamed communist.

I drink like a poet

and preach sobriety like a monk with a minibar.

I am a hopeless romantic

and a self-aware misanthrope.

I starve like an artist

and eat like a critic at a free buffet.

I pray like a sinner in crisis

and sin like a priest on vacation.

I am a minimalist hoarder,

a pacifist who throws words like knives.

A walking ceasefire

that sleeps with the sound of gunfire.

I am not a being —

I am a literary contradiction.

Grammatically,

I am an oxymoron.

Biologically,

just a moron on oxy.

I am you, and you are I —

but you knew that

long before I accused you.

You’ve just been in denial so long,

you’ve mistaken your own reflection

for a hostage you could rescue.

But the truth?

The hostage never begged for freedom.

It begged for a sharper blade.

And you still weren’t brave enough

to press it to your own throat —

so you handed it to me.

And called it poetry.