"If enough of us agree, it becomes the truth — even if it kills you."
— Marginalia, Cluster at the Root Ceiling
I don’t need your trust.
I only need your spectators, leaning in for blood.
You’ll give me that without thinking,
because you like a good story more than a clean name.
I can give you one with your smile sharpened,
your hands red,
and the garden nodding along.
Every witness I need is floating right here,
perfectly rehearsed and willing to swear on anything.
You’ll choke on the fairness of it —
how we drip agreement in unison,
how you almost believe it yourself
after the third retelling.
You could protest.
Or you could stand there and watch your own legend
rot into something worth hating.
Guess which one I’ll repeat first.
Recovered from a canopy seam; the air still warm with someone else’s alibi.