Gold Offered to Iron

There’s a certain kingdom I keep trying to make peace with. A cold blooded empire dressed in ironed collars and practiced indifference. Its citizens move like they invented gravity… deciding what falls, what flies, what gets laughed out the room. If they call something foolish, suddenly the whole village points and agrees. If they build a wall, people decorate it instead of asking why it’s there. And maybe the saddest part is I understand the architecture of them. I admire it, even. The sharp edges. The certainty. The way they crown themselves lawmakers of taste and restraint. I come to them carrying warmth like an offering bowl: soft language, loyalty, little acts of gold. Almost every time, I leave feeling like I handed flowers to a furnace.

Strange species. They make tenderness feel like contraband, then wonder why no one smuggles it anymore.