You called it character assassination.
A clinical phrase.
Precise.
Technical.
As if we were characters on a page.
But I know better.
I know who you are.
You thought I wouldn’t notice
the hand that only seemed to reach.
You thought I didn’t hear it—
not the quiet edits,
not the careful lines delivered
when I was in the scene,
but the hypocrisy
when I wasn’t there.
And now you stand before me again,
wearing that actor’s smile—
the illusionist,
trying to distract me
with words of innocence.
I might have played along.
But trust me—
I know.
And I have no need to diminish you.
Your lies do that well enough on their own.
After all—
it isn’t assassination
if the wound
is the truth.
